Skirting Around a Scot
by Molly Raesly
Summary: Competition drives us all, but it affects no one as much as star Keeper Oliver Wood.  Quidditch is life; Quidditch is everything.  Quidditch is what introduces him to the newest Puddlemere United Chaser.
1. Tryout

**Skirting Around a Scot**

By Hermione Potter452 and Molly Raesly

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

**Tryout**

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><p>Each continued step forward caused my legs to quiver. My thighs stung. My knees cracked every time the joints grinded together. My calves felt as though they had been raked over extremely hot coals for hours without relief, and I was fairly certain that there was blood in my shoes due to the agitation caused by my trainers chafing the backs of my ankles repeatedly.<p>

Plus, my ponytail was coming undone.

The small part of my brain reserved for my self-preservation was shouting its insistence that I slow down my quick pace. However, biting my lip to staunch the sound of my hissing pain, I ignored that wisdom and lifted my hands to fasten my hair more securely.

My shoulders felt stiff at the sudden switch from repeatedly pumping my arms to being raised over my head. My breathing, which had already been labored, turned into a ragged wheeze as my lungs burned and protested. I felt a shooting sensation through my chest, as though I had been stabbed or shot with a hex squarely in the ribs. My feet faltered as I tripped up and staggered away from the straight line that I had been running in for roughly the last twenty minutes.

I gasped and sputtered as my taut legs started to give out, but I refused to stop moving forward. The bloke with the blonde hair that had been tailing me for the past minute or so swerved around me and overtook my position. Shortly behind him, the dark haired girl with a large twelve pinned to her stomach also passed me with a smirk on her face that was forced but nonetheless irritating.

Furious, I forced myself to pump my arms harder and move my legs faster. Diverting my focus away from the staccato sound of my feet pounding against the grass, the rasping of my lungs, and the feeling that my heart was about to burst out of my chest, I, instead, focused on what had happened earlier in the day.

I had always been competitive – almost to an unhealthy degree. Much to my chagrin, at social gatherings, my dad still seemed to enjoy ignoring the fact that I was now a young woman and would delight in entertaining anyone within hearing distance about how I once refused to bathe for a week when I was four because my rubber ducky lost to his in a bathtub battle.

What my dad neglected to mention in his mortifying storytelling was that I had three older brothers. I would fork over a hefty sum of galleons to anyone who could put up with living for years with that much testosterone without developing a strong sense of competitiveness. Ayden, Brendan, and Collin turned everything into a contest from who could get a girlfriend first to who could eat the most burritos – in both cases, I found avoiding the loo for a few days to be the best coping method.

My dad tried his best to prevent me from joining their metaphoric – though, unfortunately, sometimes literal – pissing contests, but it was a lost cause. After my mom died, the McCoy family scrambled for something to keep us together, and competition was that bonding tie.

The McCoys were obsessed with sports, mainly Quidditch: six tall goal posts, four flying balls, and fourteen players on broomsticks. At first, my interest in the game was merely a means to bond with the males in my household, but when I first rode a broomstick, I was positive no experience could surpass the feeling of soaring through the air. Since then, my Nimbus Two Thousand and One has been my constant companion. Now, even my dad could get tired of me droning on about Quidditch.

One of my earliest memories was of my dad taking my brothers and me to a Quidditch match. My dad owned a pub, and every night blokes flocked to it to talk stats, avoid their significant others, and perhaps chat up the bartender – me, when my brothers or father were not around to beat them into a pulp for looking at me the wrong way.

I was actually working at the pub when I first heard about tryouts. Dad was old friends with Sammy Willins, who took over for Ludo Bagman as the department head of Magical Games and Sports a few years back. Sammy just came in after work to drink his usual glass of bourbon and catch up with my dad when he let slip that Dominic Barker was retiring.

Dominic, "The Dominator," Barker was a living legend. Collin still had a poster of him in his room. He held the record for the most goals scored in a single match and had led Puddlemere United to five World Cup victories as Captain. There were rumors that he had been born with a Quaffle in his hands – for his mother's sake, I hoped that was not true. Even though my father had raised us all to respect our roots and had more or less forced my British mum to buy us cradle mobiles of the Irish team, I could not help but to appreciate the wonderful athleticism of Puddlemere.

That being said, I had no idea why Puddlemere would bother holding open tryouts to fulfill the Dominator's shoes. No one could possibly measure up. So, naturally, with a bit of festering and a few more glasses of bourbon, I found out exactly when and where the tryouts were being held. Though I was not strictly invited to the tryouts, I could not let the opportunity pass me by. I decided to crash it and see what happened.

My best friend and roommate Nora was scandalized that I was doing something so uncouth. Ellenore Webb was a planner while I was a bit of a sloppy mess. We had met at Hogwarts, and she had been reminding me to comb my hair and take my vitamins ever since. She hated that I was just planning on showing up and making a possible fool out of myself in front of Quidditch professionals, but the little smiley faced good luck note she had left for me beside a basket full of banana nut muffins on the kitchen table of our flat was all the encouragement I needed to be sure I was doing the right, if albeit reckless, thing.

Fortified by a muffin – okay, four – I apparated directly to the Puddlemere stadium and got in line with the other hopefuls to register for tryouts. The assistant did not find my name on the list but luckily decided it was due to a clinical error and took down my information.

Luck was on my side.

It was not until I had the large number twenty-four pinned to my chest and was waiting to be addressed by the owner of Puddlemere United that I realized what an utter fool I could be making of myself. However, by then, I had already gone too far to change my mind so I did my best to keep my muffins down and hoped that my nerves would subside.

I kept my posture stiff and alert when Richard Cooke, whom I recognized as the current owner of Puddlemere United from the various stories of him in _Which Broomstick _when he would describe how he used his fortune from inventing self-thickening milkshakes to buy a Quidditch team, came out onto the pitch to speak. His thinning hair and mustache were a mix of gray and blonde, but his port belly was covered in robes the same blue color as the Puddlemere players wore. From my quick perusal, I guessed that he drank sherry or possibly something fruity with a little umbrella.

Cooke eyed the sixty or so contestants standing beside me with an eager smile on his face as he rubbed his hands together. "Let's get right down to it," he declared in a jovial voice. "Merlin knows we don't have any time to waste now that Dom's leaving. Five championships we've won since he made Captain. Can you believe? I've got sponsors begging me to get the Dominator to endorse their products. Can't get enough of him. Bloody money making machine, he is. If only he wasn't lactose intolerant."

I fought the urge to roll my eyes as one of the Puddlemere employees cleared his throat.

"Oh, right," Cooke continued. "Well, as much as we here at Puddlemere United hate to lose such a fabulous player, that's how these things work. Now it's time for you fine groups of reserves to have your shot at Quidditch glory."

I bit my tongue and fidgeted my sweaty palms over the polished handle of my Nimbus as I tried to keep my cool. I knew that the tryouts would be closed to players who had already been playing Quidditch semi-professionally for a few years, but it was quite different to actually be standing amongst the players themselves. As Cooke blathered on, I mentally chastised myself for thinking that playing Quidditch with my brothers in the backyard during childhood summers and for two years at Hogwarts meant that I was qualified for this. I reached up to finger the three interlocking hoops on my necklace before squaring my jaw in resolve. If I did not believe in my abilities, Puddlemere sure as hell would not.

"We're looking for a Chaser who not only plays well but works well within our organization. I don't want anybody who's going to sully the Puddlemere name. We're not just about winning here, we're about sportsmanship and positively representing the Puddlemere blue. So, if you can't comply with that, I'd skedaddle out of here."

His mouth was smiling, but there was a trace of a threat in his blue eyes. I stood up a bit straighter. When no one in the group budged, Cooke clapped his hands together.

"Brilliant," he praised. "Well, better let the tryout begin. We're all hoping to see great things. Now, without further ado, I'd like to introduce you all to our Head Coach Johnny Fletcher. He's going to be evaluating you. Best of luck to you all!"

Cooke paused with a wide grin etched onto his face, and his mustache twitched. I thought it was pretty obvious that he was expecting some sort of applause, but I remained silent and frozen along with the other hopefuls.

Eventually, Cooke clapped his own hands together for the third and final time before retreating and making way for the coach to address us.

Similar to the former speaker, Fletcher also had gray hair underneath his blue cap, but unlike Cooke, his body seemed toned and lean underneath his athletic garb. Vaguely, I could recall my dad mentioning Johnny Fletcher when he used to fly for the Wigtown Wanderers before he retired and settled for coaching.

"Line up! Ranks of five!" Fletcher barked in a raspy voice that caused everyone to quickly file into rows.

Johnny Fletcher definitely drank scotch, single malt.

"Sprint!" he ordered as he pointed to the other side of the pitch.

Dutifully, I gently placed my broom on the grass and then started running.

He only made us run for a few minutes, but before I could catch my breath, Fletcher had already asked five people to leave the pitch. Next, he had us fly laps around the pitch as fast as we could. I flew so quickly that I had tears running down my face from the wind whipping past my eyes. Eight more people were asked to leave. It was all happening so fast that I did not have a chance to feel excited or nervous about continuing past the preliminary tasks.

Early on, I had learned that false confidence could ruin even the most qualified athlete. Nerves were equally problematic. Instead, I stayed focused and blocked out everything that did not involve Quidditch.

After another round of suicide sprints, Fletcher split us up into three groups to have us start flying drills.

I was allocated to the right side of the pitch with about fifteen others. I briefly eyed my competition: a girl who looked about my age but had about thirty pounds on me, two boys that were a few years older and had strapping shoulders, and a skinny, older bloke with missing front teeth seemed to be the most outwardly aggressive.

A man in his forties with a deep tan and a dimpled chin, flew over to us and introduced himself as Tony Deering, the Offensive Coordinator.

"Hello, mates," he greeted us with a thick Liverpool accent. "Any of you lot pee your pants yet? Murph – Bill Murphy, he runs defense – and I have ten sickles going to see if anyone pisses themselves."

The young boy next to me teetered uncomfortably.

"Nah, I'm just taking the mickey out of you. It's old man Fletch's job to scare ya. Something about separating the men from the boys and all that rubbish. I'm here to have some fun. What's the point of playing Quidditch if you can't enjoy ever sodding minute of it?" Tony let out a large laugh and smiled widely.

I impulsively grinned back at him and decided that Tony drank butterbeer.

"Okay, pick up your brooms. We're gonna do some drills to shake off those looks like you're 'bout to throw up on my shoes from your faces. I want everybody up in the air for a bit, and then we'll do some work individually."

Even though my muscles were already starting to feel a bit sore, I eagerly mounted my broom and waited for further instructions. Something about Tony reminded me of why I loved Quidditch so much. Anxiety forgotten, I darted across the pitch in the strange obstacle course that had been set up. It was full of sharp turns and hard edges. It was the type of flying that took more precision and focus than instinct, and it was made all the more challenging by the others zooming around me as potential collision targets.

I heard my dad's commentary ringing though my ear. He probably could have worked for the wizarding radio with all the knowledge he was always spouting off about Quidditch, but he would never leave the pub. He was the main reason why I knew the game so well. When I was younger and my brothers were at Hogwarts, leaving me alone with just my dad, I used to sit at the bar for hours and listen to him talk strategy until I literally fell asleep into the Shirley Temple he would make me.

Once finished swerving and weaving through the course, Tony had us each perform the course by ourselves as he timed us.

Next, he had us perform a series of dives. Back when Ayden was in Hogwarts, he never let me be Chaser because that was also his position so I had plenty of practice seeking. While one of my dives was a bit too sharp, I felt like I had done just as well as, if not better than, the majority in my group.

Once the last person had finished their dives, Tony frowned and pointed at his naked wrist. "Bloody hell! My watch is missing! Is that why you lot have been searching the ground? Looking for something shiny? Don't you know that we have tryouts going on?"

He stared at our dumbfounded expressions and then rolled his eyes. "Oi, lighten up, you lot! I'm not going to perform an Unforgiveable on anyone for smiling. Besides, I don't even wear a watch. It's much too stuffy for me to know the time."

I snorted, and Tony winked at me before leading us into catching and throwing drills with the Quaffle. It reminded me of the way that my brothers and I put away groceries – very efficient, though, sometimes the eggs got a bit broken. The drills went rather well except for once when I almost missed but caught the ball with my very fingertips. I glanced nervously at Tony, but he just laughed heartily and told me to throw the ball before he got even more gray hair.

We wrapped up the nearly two hours of drills with a series of complicated passing, and then Fletcher called the groups together in his commanding bark.

He called out the names of six more players who were asked to leave. Next, Fletcher stared us down as we each had to attempt to score against both Tony and the other man, Bill Murphy, as Keepers.

"If you can get it in past these old chaps, you might be able to trick one professional Keeper," Fletch had said.

I made all ten shots. So did seven others. Five more people went home.

"All right, stay put," was all Fletcher said before he led Tony and Bill Murphy away from the Pitch. However, right before they disappeared, Fletcher waved his wand, and a bunch of water bottles appeared.

Beyond dehydrated, I rushed towards the giant tub along with the others and grabbed a water bottle. I chugged some quickly and then poured a bit onto my sweaty, salt-stained face. The late August heat was overbearing, and I was not used to such intensive workouts beyond my usual morning runs. I sat down onto the grass, despite the protests of my tired knees as I squatted down, and drank my water while pulling at my uncomfortably moist mesh shorts and numerous tank tops.

The others around me were in equal states of lethargy, and there was little movement from anyone for at least five minutes. However, eventually, people started to sit up and get more water. A few of the people who seemed more genial in nature tried to strike up conversation. Most, though, kept to themselves. I was with the latter. It was too strange to try to chat up someone I not so secretly really wanted to fail. No amount of awkward small talk could change that. Plus, in the hot sun, everyone smelled a bit like Brendan's sweaty socks.

After about twenty more minutes passed, I was getting antsy. I was no longer sitting but pacing a bit back and forth and stretching out my knees.

"Do you reckon they forgot about us?" a bloke near me asked aloud.

"Please," a girl with a square face leered. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've heard today."

"You mean, besides whoever told you that you could make it professionally?"

"Well, at least I'm not still riding a Comet! Were they all out of flying carpets?"

"Oi!" I hissed finally to interrupt them as I spotted the coaches coming back onto the pitch. "Shut it. They're back."

Fletcher's face betrayed nothing as he held up his clipboard and cleared his throat. "Numbers 2, 12, 17, 24 –"

I gasped quietly as I missed the last few numbers he rambled off. My heart thudded loudly in my chest as I gnawed at my lip in anticipation.

"Follow me," he ordered. "The rest of you can go. Better luck with the Chudley Cannons."

Shakily, I joined nine others and filed in behind Fletcher.

He did not speak as he led us up several flights of wooden stairs.

I held my Nimbus tightly against my chest as I wondered if he planned to push us off the top box and see if we had the common sense not to plummet to our deaths.

However, just shy of the very top of the stands, Fletcher turned abruptly and directed us towards a corridor I had never knew could exist in stadiums before. I had not seen it before we entered it, and I had the feeling that it was magically concealed somehow.

Fletcher removed a large set of brass keys from his trouser pocket and jiggled them in his hand until he stopped at a door on our left. "Number two, get in here," he ordered. "Everybody else wait outside."

A stout ginger, who looked rather green, thus, creating a sort of Christmas effect, reluctantly scuffled behind Fletcher, and they disappeared with a slam of the door.

A tall blonde bloke, a dark haired girl, and the older toothless man who had been in my group before slid against the wall and sat on the floor. A boy who seemed no older than seventeen started muttering things under his breath, and I did my best to tune him out. Nearby, a woman in her twenties paced back and forth as she played with the number thirty-two on her front. A massive man with bushy eyebrows picked at his fingernails, which seemed so large that they would be the size of a thumb, beside a skinny bloke who seemed like he could hardly lift a broom, let alone ride one.

As for myself, I crossed my arms across my chest and did my best to ignore the stifling tension engulfing the small space. I had not minded the previous drills and sprints because I had total control over my performance. This, however, this waiting around and feeling completely at another's mercy, made me feel as though I might start breaking out into hives at any moment.

I started jumping up and down a bit in place and stretching out my legs to stay limber and to distract myself. Some of my competitors eyed me suspiciously, but I just ignored them. None of them bothered to exchange perfunctory pleasantries. Everyone here wanted everyone else to fail, and that mentality was just fine by me.

After a slow fifteen minutes, the door creaked.

Immediately I stopped doing ankle rolls and stared at the door as the ginger came into view; he looked impossibly greener.

"Twelve!" barked Fletcher from inside the room. The dark haired girl got off the floor, grabbed her broom, and disappeared behind the door.

All eyes zeroed in on the newly returned ginger, but he just shook his head, sat down on the floor, and hung his face in his hands.

I studied him for a few minutes before deciding that the ginger – who probably never drank – was not employing some sort of psychological strategy but genuinely appeared traumatized. I bit my lip and stared at the door.

Smirking to herself, she – Miss Bloody Mary – came back much sooner than the ginger had and was replaced by the tall blonde boy. She, too, stayed silent about her experience, so I continued to wait in ignorance. The boy was number seventeen, so I knew I was next.

The door creaked for a third time, and I left my trepidation behind in the corridor as I tightened my grip on my broom, straightened my shoulders, and brushed past the blonde as I walked through the

To my surprise, I entered not a training facility or weight room but a small, cluttered office. I blinked up at the numerous black and white photos of Quidditch players waving trophies in the air and cheering happily. Fletcher was seated behind a desk that had so much paperwork on it that I could only see him from his neck up.

"Sit," he directed gruffly.

I sat down at the chair opposite his, which was not nearly as comfortable as the plush one he was seated in seemed, and looked up at him expectantly.

He peered down at me with a look that matched my own before looking down at some files he was flipping through on his desk. "How old are you?" he asked, not bothering to look at me.

"Twenty."

"Height and weight?"

"Five foot six and about 58 kilograms."

"Any injuries?"

"Sprained my ankle when I was sixteen."

"Does it still work?"

"I've run four marathons since then," I replied, using the same brevity of words that he did.

"Any medical conditions?"

"I'm allergic to mangos," I told him in utter seriousness.

The tips of his mustache twitched, but he kept his gaze down. "How many years have you played?"

"Since I was five."

"What teams?"

"Gryffindor," I answered.

He paused, as though waiting for me to rattle off some more impressive names.

When I did not, he stopped looking down at his desk and peered at me closely.

Instead of fidgeting under his gaze, I stared back at him defiantly, daring him to ask me how on earth I could even imagine having enough experience to be a professional Chaser.

Fletcher pursed his lips and then began examining paperwork again. "You the captain of that team?"

"Nope," I replied honestly. I had wanted to be, but Demelza Robbins got the position because she had been playing longer. Seniority was respected by the McCoy's – just ask my eldest brother Ayden.

"Play for six years?"

"No," I admitted.

He ticked his tongue.

"With all due respect, sir, I went to Hogwarts during the battle with You-Know-Who. Quidditch was not the priority as much as not getting hit by an Unforgivable was. When Snape was running the school, we didn't even have Quidditch. If you don't think I've got the skills, then you probably would have sent me home already."

He paused for a few seconds; his expression was unfathomable. "You do drugs?"

"No, sir," I answered, mentally wondering how my father would dispose of my body if he ever found me doing drugs.

"Call people 'sir' a lot?"

"No, sir."

His eyes flicked up questioningly.

"Not unless they deserve it, sir."

He stilled and then leaned back in his armchair. His eyes raked over my athletic clothing and messy dark hair lumped at the top of my head before settling on my brown eyes. "Why are you here?"

After I answered him, Fletcher told me I could go back and wait in the corridor before he barked out the next number.

Nine sets of eyes greeted me when I closed the door to the office behind me as the massive bloke walked over to take my place.

"Don't worry," I told him. "It's just an interview."

His surprisingly gentle blue eyes met mine gratefully as he nodded.

In my periphery, I noticed several others sigh in relief. I wrapped my arms back across my chest, hugging my broomstick against me, and settled myself up against the wall once more.

It took about another hour before the rest of the interviews were completed. Fletcher came out of his office with one hand fidgeting with his cap and the other carrying a large stack of files under his arm and told us to head back to the field.

I zigzagged through the narrow corridors while contemplating what hoops he would have us jump through next.

As we walked back on the grassy field of the pitch, Fletcher sighed and said, "There's Wood."

I looked around in confusion but then realized he meant the bloke waiting in the grass.

Apparently, I was the only one not to figure this out right away because the dark haired girl actually whimpered a bit as a girl beside me whispered, "Oliver Wood," in a breathy gasp.

I rolled my eyes and felt more like a McCoy than ever as I was surrounded by swooning women. Sure, Wood was impressive by anyone's standards. After only seven years of playing professionally for Puddlemere, he was only second in stats to Skip Jones, a hero of the 1970s and undeniably the best Keeper of all time. He consistently made over five hundred saves a season and was currently leading in the most amount of fouls blocked. My dad was particularly fond of the Starfish and Stick maneuver he used in a game against the Bulgarians two years ago to win the match.

Wood had actually led Gryffindor to its first Quidditch Cup in ages when I was a First Year at Hogwarts. I recalled being jealous that First Years could not play on the House team, but with all that Harry Potter drama with the dementors that year, I was probably better off waiting to make my debut. Nevertheless, even if he seemed like a Firewhiskey sort of bloke, I was more interested in hearing Wood's strategy plans than becoming more acquainted with his admittedly actually quite fit physique. His shoulders were burlier than I remembered.

"Anyone worth taking?" Wood asked with a thick accent.

I had forgotten he was Scottish. Apparently, the breathless twat beside me had not.

"I don't want any lightweights on my team."

Fletcher snorted. "Just start running, Wood."

"Aye, Fletch." Seemingly effortlessly, the bloke started running at a fairly fast pace.

I wondered how long he was planning on sustaining that level.

"Oi!" he called over his shoulder. "I'm not doing this for my health. Let's go."

The other candidates and I scrambled to join him.

"Five kilometers," barked Fletcher from where he was observing us. "If you can't do it, you can't play for Puddlemere."

And so I ran, and I kept running. I maintained a steady pace as the pitch's details started to get blurry and I lost track of how many times I had circled the field. It was only after my ponytail came undone and the blonde bloke and the dark haired girl passed me that I began to run faster.

Even though my legs felt like lead and my feet burned every time they slapped against the ground, I pushed myself further. Nothing was going to deter me. I wanted this too badly.

With that in mind, after a whole day of tryouts, I pumped my arms faster and crouched down as I began to sprint. My breathing was ragged and disjointed, but I gasped and sputtered and kept moving. I surpassed the girl first and then the boy. Back in my previous position, I spread my strides even longer and then overcame the very skinny boy and then the ginger, who was surprisingly speedy.

Finally, after I passed by one of the older men, I was directly behind Wood, who had led the group throughout the entire run. While before had seemed like I had to fight against my body, I finally reached a point at which my legs easily complied when I pushed them to go faster. My breathing began to even out slightly as the air swooshed through my system.

Running directly behind him, I waited until I matched his stride before worming around him and squeezing in between him and the wall of the circular stands.

To say that he looked surprised that someone had caught up with him would have been an understatement. I swore he almost stopped running when his eyes flicked over and saw me beside him.

The shock quickly disappeared, and he raised an eyebrow challengingly at me as he nodded in my direction before speeding up.

I pursed my lips together and pushed myself to match his quickened pace until our pumping arms nearly brushed against each other before countering his expression with a taunting smirk of my own.

I increased our pace, and he mimicked my stride. We continued challenging each other for another three laps until Fletcher announced loudly that we had one lap left.

He turned his head to look at me with a wide smile, which I returned before Wood and I broke out into complete sprints. His legs were longer, but I was faster.

I ignored the syncopated sounds of his heavy panting and my wheezing and shut out all other distractions as I focused completely on propelling my body forward. As we rounded the final curve, Wood and I were still tied until I straightened up and stretched every stride as far as I could, bypassing sprinting and practically flying across the grass.

I overtook Wood, and I began to feel an excess of adrenaline pumping through my bloodstream as a huge grin formed on my face. The endorphin rush kicked in as I pushed through the last length. Something clicked inside of me, and I was able to run even faster without pain. I sprinted until I reached Fletcher, and my body felt wonderful.

"Twenty-six minutes, eighteen seconds," he told me as he looked down at his watch.

Wheezing, I nodded and slowed my legs down to a walk and clutched at my pounding chest. The hormone rush was still coursing through me like a high, but I could feel it start to dwindle as my heart tried to slow down.

Seconds later, Wood reached us and also began walking.

"Twenty-six, twenty-five," Fletcher barked with a mocking smile on his face as he flicked his eyes over at me.

Wood scowled and hunched over as he breathed in deeply. He lifted up his shirt and wiped off his face.

Living with three older brothers, working in my father's pub, and playing Quidditch, I was fairly used to seeing guys with fit bodies.

However, something about catching a glimpse of this bloke's abdominals made my slowing heart rate pick up again. I felt my face go red and was extremely grateful that I could blame it on the running. I diverted my gaze and heard my dad's chastising voice in my head. _No bloke will ever be good enough for you, love. So don't bother and don't wear that top._

He lowered his shirt and then walked over to me. "Oi, 24! Don't think you beat me. I slowed down at the end so Fletch would be impressed," he said, his voice still sounding shaky.

I rolled my eyes. "Sure, you did," I agreed condescendingly.

He smirked. "Wanna give it another go?"

"Maybe later."

He nodded with a tired sigh and then wiped at his sweaty hair, which looked about five shades darker than the light brown I had seen from before the race, with the back of his hand. "Probably better that way," he acquiesced. "Then you won't argue about not having your full strength when I beat you."

"And you'll have a chance to get a new set of lungs," I countered, though the retort was weakened by the shortness of my own breath. "Seems like the pair you've got now aren't working. What a shame. I'd hate to be the one to break it to some of my female opponents."

His brown eyes flickered with amusement. "You got a name, 24?"

I crossed my arms across my chest and took a step towards him. "Hayley McCoy."

"Well, McCoy, what brings you to Puddlemere United?"

I smiled to myself as I repeated the same answer I had told Fletcher in his office earlier. "The competition."

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><p><em>AN:_

__Hey there, crazy kids! Welcome to Skirting Around a Scot! As you probably have already figured out, this story is a collaboration between MollyR (aka Molly Raesly, author of the Boyfriend series, Stray, Sweet, and loads more) and me!, Hermione Potter452 (Danica, author of A Subtle Touch Unseen and A Spectral Memory Untouched). I'm sure that you who are Molly fans would rather read author's notes from the amazing Molly Raesly, but she has forced all of the titles/summaries/author's notes upon me...because she sucks...so you all are stuck with my boring (and sometimes long) author's notes. To those of you who read my story, I apologize for taking forever to update (this year SUCKED), and I promise that this new Oliver story will not get in the way of my writing. In fact, until I finish the final 2 chapters of ASMU, Molly will be the primary writer of the first few chapters, with help/input/editing by me. So, this story is still a team effort, as Molly keeps reminding me. SO! As, SAAS is Molly Raesly's FINAL story, give her some love! We hope you enjoy this story and let us know just what you think of it, the lovely Hayley McCoy, and the burly Oliver Wood in a review!_  
><em>~ Danica, on behalf of herself and Molly<em>_


	2. Contracts

_SAAS INSTANT REPLAY:_

_His brown eyes flickered with amusement. "You got a name, 24?"_

_I crossed my arms across my chest and took a step towards him. "Hayley McCoy."_

_"Well, McCoy, what brings you to Puddlemere United?"_

_I smiled to myself as I repeated the same answer I had told Fletcher in his office earlier. "The competition."_

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

**Contracts**

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><p>The first day after my tryout, I skittered around the apartment and reorganized our kitchen pantry, alphabetized my scant bookshelf (realizing in the process that I only owned Quidditch-related books and barely worn schoolbooks), arranged all the clothes in my wardrobe by color, and polished Nora's extensive collection of pearl earrings. I could not stop my fingers from twitching with the need to keep busy. Unfortunately, even scoffing down all the brownies Nora baked to cope with her anxiety induced from my fretfulness did not help. I spent every minute checking to see if any new post had arrived. Apart from a few notes for Nora, nothing came.<p>

At the pub that night, I mixed up three orders and gave a customer a rum and Coke without any rum. My dad actually sent me home early because he was worried that I was getting sick. Before that night, I had not screwed up an order in over two years (beating Brendan's second place record of a pitiful nine months). However, if loving Quidditch too desperately was a disease, they could not brew an antidote strong enough to cure me.

Part of me was glad that I had not told my family about the tryouts. It was better that I did not get their hopes up for nothing.

Three more days passed, and I slowly began to stop obsessively checking for the post; listening for the sound of ruffling feathers that never came hurt too much. It was fairly obvious that they had chosen someone else. It would have been nice if they had sent me some sort of rejection notice, but I supposed one of the most highly ranked Quidditch teams did not need to concern itself with niceties. I tried not to be too upset about it. Never having played professionally, I would have been rather foolish choice for Puddlemere to make. Even if I thought I had performed well, Fourth Years at Hogwarts had more experience than I did. I tried to be as diplomatic as possible about the whole thing and just wished that they did not choose that dark haired girl. She seemed like a real twit.

So, putting away my naïve fairy tale of joining a professional Quidditch team, I went back to the pub and worked and continued with my life as usual. The monotony really was not so bad.

"Fuck," I whispered to the semi-darkness of my bedroom as I lay dejectedly on my bed four days after the tryout. I gauged my lip to keep the tears welling in my eyes from falling. I was wearing my most comfortable sweatpants that used to belong to Ayden and my rattiest Irish t-shirt that had holes all down the sides from too many washings. My long brown hair was matted and dull against my wooden headboard from my recent lack of interest in caring about anything that did not involve wallowing. I was staring out the window of my room when I heard Nora call my name.

"Oi, Hayles! Post for you!"

I buried my head into my squashy, purple pillow that matched my deep violet quilt. "Very funny, Ellenore," I growled, dragging out her full name solely to piss her off. "When you go to hell ask You-Know-Who what happened to his nose for me, yeah?"

"No, I'm serious, Hayley. An owl just left."

"Probably just one of my idiot brothers," I muttered. "Remember when Collin actually figured out a way to mail me a fart?" I added dryly.

"It's got a blue and gold insignia on it."

I ran so quickly into the kitchen that Nora seemed a bit dazed.

"Give it," I said as I snatched the parchment out of her hands.

Nora stood on her tip toes as she attempted to read over my shoulder. "What does it say?"

"I dunno," I told her as I fumbled with the wax seal. "I haven't perfected my x-ray vision yet." I finally tore it open and then stopped. My fingers trembled, causing the heavy parchment to shake.

"What's wrong?" Nora asked, her blue eyes wide with confusion.

I chewed my lip as bile built up in my throat. "What if it's just a letter telling me I didn't make the cut?"

Nora reached up and flicked my forehead with her fingers.

"Ow! That hurt."

"Not as much as your thickness wounds me."

I gave her a look, which she returned just as strongly.

"C'mon, Hayley. Even if it's bad news, we'll deal with it together. Besides, when have you ever second guessed yourself?"

She was right in all regards except for Quidditch. True passion had a way of creating the utmost vulnerability within a person.

Nora, however, would not condone my hesitancy. "Do I have to remind you of that time in Fifth Year when you marched right up to that git Bryan Hikes after he broke up with you and punched him in the nose?"

"He cried," I recalled fondly.

"I know you're scared, Love, but I believe in you."

I was not a huge fan of pet names; as a matter of fact, I hated them immensely. However, something about the way Nora used them made it work. Maybe it was that she always smelled like honeysuckles, and here earlobes never went without pearl earrings; maybe it was because her faint Russian accent made everything sound welcoming as it left her lips.

"That's kind of sweet," I told her.  
>"Now shut your trap and open that later, McCoy!" she barked, a bit of that Russian accent coming out.<p>

I nodded and unfolded the letter before quickly scanning its contents.

_Dear Ms. McCoy,_

_After careful deliberation, we have decided to offer you the open Chaser position about Puddlemere United. _

I stopped reading and looked heavenward. "Bloody hell!" I exclaimed.

"What?" Nora shrieked. "Did they say why they didn't pick you?"

"Oi! What happened to you believing in me?"

Nora ignored me as she moved the letter, which I refused to let go of, in front of her face. "Oh Bozhe! You did it! You're going to play for Puddlemere!"

Something about Nora actually saying it aloud made my face break out into a gigantic grin.

"Holy shit!" I shrieked as I grabbed onto Nora's arm with my free hand. "I'm going to be a professional Quidditch player!"

Nora returned my joyous yelling as she pulled me into a tight hug.

When I finally released her, my beam was impossibly wider. "I can't believe it. This is…I just…Wow."

"I'm so happy for you!" Nora congratulated me as she showed off her ability to form a complete sentence. No wonder she was training to be a healer. She always received better marks than I did when we were in school. "We have to celebrate! I'll get a hold of Carter, and we'll go to some fancy restaurant."

I scoffed. "Like my dad is going to let us eat anywhere besides the pub after he hears this."

"Free rounds for everyone."

"Yeah, just you and your Smirnoff," I said with a smirk before my face paled. "Shit."

"What?" she asked with concern.

"I didn't tell anybody besides you about the tryout. My dad's going to freak out. You know how he hates it when I do things behind his back. He's always going on about how a 'lie of omission is just as bad as a bold out lie to someone's face.' Remember that time in Sixth Year when we got tattoos?"

Nora laughed, likely remembering how red my dad's freckled face got when we went swimming and he saw the small, three interlocking hoops I had inked onto my right hip to match the necklace I always wore. Of course, the memory was amusing for her; she never got the tattoo. As soon as she saw the needle, she had chickened out. Some healer-in-training she made.

"You just wait until I tell him the tryout was all your idea. Then we'll see who's laughing," I threatened.

"I was completely against you trying out from the get-go!" Nora rebuffed.

"Then I'll make sure to quote you in my first interview. I can see the headlines now. 'Russian Roommate Has No Faith in New Player.'"

Nora huffed and flicked some of her curly red hair over her shoulder as she stormed into our tiny kitchen, which was covered in fruit-themed wall paper and had a square wooden table crammed into the center of it, and then returned with our phone.

We had a lot of muggle appliances around the house because Nora was a Muggle-born. Plus, even though my dad was a half-blood, my mum had been a Muggle, and he made sure we all took Muggle Studies in school and had telephones in our homes to better understand how she was raised.

"Just call your father, suka," Nora commanded as she forced the telephone into my hand.

Having lived in Britain since her family moved here when she was four, Nora constantly surprised me in her ability to sound exactly like her very Russian grandmama. "Fine," I acquiesced as I punched my dad's number into the phone before bringing it up to my ear. As the tone dialed, I pictured his cramped flat above the pub and briefly reminded myself to bring over some of the snickerdoodles Nora made this afternoon the next time I saw him.

"'Lo," his Irish voice answered after two rings.

I froze for a second before clearing my throat.

"Oi, is that you, Hayles?" he asked.

"Yeah, Dad, it's me," I told him as I gnawed on my lip. Nora was furiously mouthing instructions at me, so I swatted her away with my free hand. "How are you?"

"What'cha callin' me for, Hayley? Tonight's your night off. You sick, or something? Need me to do somethin' for yeh? I can apparate to your flat in a sec."

"No, Dad, it's nothing like that."

"Well, then, spit it out, little girl. I got to be headin' down for the rush soon."

That was Dad. He loved my brothers and me more than anything, but he was very direct. I supposed he had to be once he became a single father.

"Well, you see," I began cautiously with a quick glance at Nora, who was doing a horrific job of pretending she was not listening to the conversation, before cursing this ridiculous timid behavior to hell. "I'm going to be a professional Quidditch player."

He laughed deeply, and I could imagine his belly going up and down. "Yeah, and I'm gonna be an underwear model."

I sighed. I should have reckoned he would not take me seriously. "No, for real, Dad. I just got the letter in the post."

"Are you shitting me, girl?"

"No, sir," I promised. "I'm going to be a Chaser for Puddlemere United. I'm replacing Dom Barker."

"The Dominator?" Dad gasped before letting out a low whistle. There was a long pause during which I heard a bit of shuffling, then a thud, and finally a bottle opening, which I assumed meant he had sunk down into his brown leather armchair. "How'd this even come about, Hayles?"

"You remember two weeks back when old Sammy Willins came in for a drink?"

He sighed. "Don't tell me you made some kind of deal with him. Willins is a decent enough chap, but I don't want you mixed up with shady business. I swear, you were always harder to control than all three of your brothers. All my gray hair is from you."

Nora snorted, and I turned to give her a nasty look. "Why don't you go write Carter, yeah?" I told her as I covered the mouthpiece with my hand before focusing back on my Dad. "No, nothing like that. We were just talking, and he let slip that Puddlemere was hosting tryouts."

"Uh huh."

"So I went," I continued, ignoring his skepticism, "and now they're offering me the job!" The last bit came out a little like a squeal. It was unlike me to act so girly, but I had never really had a reason to be so excited before. "Dad, say something. You're not mad are you?"

"What? Hell, no, Hayley. I'm just surprised, is all. Why didn't you say something before? I would have gone with you to tryouts, or sommat."

"I didn't want to get your hopes up for no reason. Besides, I don't think people really take their fathers to stuff like that."

"Are you saying you don't need me anymore?"

"Oh, Dad, cut out the crap. We both know the answer to that."

"Yeah, but I like to make you say it every once and a while."

"Of course I need you, Dad. Now, tell me. Are you okay with this?"

"Aw, Hayles, the only thing I've got to gripe about is that you're not playing for Ireland."

I laughed along with him.

Dad sighed into the phone again. "My baby girl, a Quidditch player. Galopin' gargoyles."

"I know," I agreed, my wistful tone matching his.

"So when's your first match?" he asked, sounding suddenly extremely eager. "Do I get top seats for being family? Do you need a new broom? I've been reading up on it, and the Firebolt seems like a mop compared to the new Zenith. Oh! And do you think I can get a few jerseys printed up? I'll want to hang a few of 'em up around the pub, give them to your brothers and the grandkids, and have one for myself, o' course."

"Hold on, Dad. I haven't even met with the team officially yet. Hold off on painting the McCoys blue."

"Well, when are you meeting with them?"

I told him to hang on as I smoothed out my letter and read through it a bit more thoroughly. "It says I'm supposed to meet them on the 23rd of August," I told him.

"Well, that's tomorrow."

"Yeah," I realized with a grin. "I guess that they want me trained up as soon as possible, but first it says I've got to go and sign contracts and speak with the owner."

"Contracts?" he repeated thoughtfully. "Maybe I should go with you. I don't want you getting swindled by their fancy mumbo jumbo."

I rolled my eyes. "Dad, I'll be fine. I'm twenty years old, remember?"

"How could I forget with you always reminding me?" he countered teasingly. "My daughter, a Qudditch star."

"I haven't even played yet, Dad. Who knows, I might be awful."

"Nonsense. You're a McCoy. We take down the competition's or we – "

"Knock 'em down," I finished his motto for him. "I know, Dad."

"You best be coming to the pub tonight, Hayles. I'll fix you something real good."

"Don't worry, Dad. Nora is writing Carter now. We'll be there soon."

"Abrams? She still dating that prat?"

"Dad, Carter's a great guy." He really was. Nora met Carter Abrams about six months after we got out of school. Tall with dark blonde hair, he ended up at St. Mungo's after getting a nasty bite from a mandrake working at his job as a herbologist. Nora, who had just started her internship at the time, helped to take care of him, and they were both smitten. Only my love for Nora kept me from constantly gagging in their blissful presence.

"I just don't like to see you girls getting treated improperly."

I resisted the urge to mention how he and my brothers managed to scare off all of my past dating fiascos. "Yeah, yeah," I indulged him. "I better go, Dad. I want to ring up the boys and tell 'em the news."

He laughed heartily at that. "Any chance you can record that for me?"

"I'm five steps in front of ya, Dad. We'll be at the pub in about an hour, and don't think this means I'm letting you stuff your face with fish and chips. You remember what Healer Bacarri said." At sixty-three, my dad was battling with high cholesterol. I did my best to raid his fridge every so often and stock his pantry with healthy things, but he was pretty set in his ways after owning a pub for over thirty years. None of us were the best of cooks, and so we had lived off of greasy food and alcohol since I was just a kid.

"Aww, c'mon, Hayles. Can't I grill up a few burgers, or something? We're celebrating."

"Dad," I scolded.

"All right, all right, kid. I'll be good, Quidditch star."

I grinned widely again, enjoying the title. "See you soon, Dad."

"Oi, Hayles?"

"Yeah?"

He sighed into the phone, and I could hear sniffing.

Immediately I tensed up. My dad was normally not one to get very emotional, and I found heartfelt emotion to be toxic.

"I'm real proud of you, and if, uh, you're mum were still around," he paused as his voice cracked a bit before adding, "I'm sure she'd be too. You know how she loved to watch all of you play in the yard. It used to make her laugh."

My chest tightened as I chocked back the emotion threatening to rise up and turn this into a tearful conversation. "Thanks, Dad. Go get the alcohol ready!" I teased.

He replied something cheeky back to me then and kept me on the phone for about another five minutes the way only a parent could before hanging up.

Next, I called up my brothers in age order. Ayden was convinced I was pranking him, Brendan wanted to know who was supplying me with such high potency drugs, and Collin asked me if I had flashed the coaches (and if this was true, what engorgement charm Nora had put on me).

Wonderful brothers I had.

Nevertheless, I spent the night at the pub drinking with my family, Nora, Carter, and anyone else my father could force alcohol on. I noticed my dad sneaking down some chips and a reuben when he did not think I was watching, but I let it slide for the night. I would attack him with celery later that week.

The next day, despite the copious amounts of alcohol I had imbibed, I woke up the next morning around ten without much damage. I could not remember the last time I was hungover. The McCoys were revered for their ability to hold their alcohol. My dad would not let any of his children grow up to be lightweights.

Because I had about two hours until I had my meeting with Richard Cooke, I made myself some sausage and porridge for breakfast and then took a five-minute shower, which was as long as I could enjoy before the water turned freezing cold. When I walked back into my room, I noticed that Nora had left out an outfit on my desk chair for me along with a neon pink post-it note wishing me good luck before she had left for her shift at St. Mungo's earlier that morning.

Making a mental note to pick her up a pint of rocky road ice cream, I shimmied into the slate gray trousers, sleeveless red button down blouse, and black flats she had left out for me. I examined myself in the mirror and thanked Nora for her impeccable fashion taste. Since leaving my house, where jeans and t-shirts were the constant uniform, I had benefited from Nora's tutelage and had picked up a few things about coordinating colors, applying mascara, and all the rest of that girly crap. Yet, I probably could not have picked out something that looked professional while still being comfortable; that was Nora's specialty.

Feeling more in my own element, I threw a bunch of athletic clothing into a gym bag and then magically made it smaller so that I could fit it into my purse. I got my broom out, which I kept in a locked chest under my bed, and polished it quickly in case any of the shine had worn off from the coat I had given my Nimbus Two Thousand and One the previous night.

By the time I had finished getting ready, I still had about a half hour until my meeting, but I decided just to apparate to the stadium so that I would not run the risk of being late.

When I got to the pitch, after jumping up and down a bit in place to psych myself up and loosen my ridiculous nerves, I walked through the entrance and realized that practice was going on.

With fascination and a slight tug of envy, I watched, mesmerized, as the players ran drills effortlessly. It was like watching a symphony played out. A turn there, a pass, a soaring dive. Quidditch was beautiful.

I stayed inconspicuous for a few minutes before a bloke walked up to me. I recognized him as Tony Deering, the offensive coordinator who had run drills with my group at tryouts.

"What you hiding back here for, huh?" he asked me teasingly.

"Just admiring from afar," I told him sheepishly.

"Well, you won't be too far away much longer. Gotta get you whipped into shape."

I grinned as I turned to look back up at the players in the sky.

"Yeah, you got the look," he noted.

"Look?"

"Like you'd do anything to be up there with them. That's good. You hope that passion never goes away, even when you become an old geezer with three kids like me." He leaned back and shook his head wistfully before offering me his hand. "Tony Deering. I'm in charge of offense."

"I remember," I replied as I shook with him. "You kept trying to lighten the mood at tryouts, but no one would laugh at your jokes."

He chuckled and scratched at the stubble along his jaw, which had bits of gray mixed in with the sandy brown. "Yeah, well, a bunch of highly competitive athletes vying for the same spot probably isn't the best crowd for laughs. You flew well, though. I was rooting for you the whole time."

I glowed under his praise.

"Sorry, but I don't know your name. They only let us go by numbers to keep it impartial."

"Oh! I'm Hayley – Hayley McCoy."

"Good to have you with us, Hayley," he congratulated me. "You here for practice?"

I shook my head. "I've got to meet with the owner first."

"Right!" he realized, smacking his forehead jokingly. "Contracts and all that. Can't have you start playing until they start paying. Do you know where Cooke's office is?"

I shook my head again.

"All right, I'll take you there. Practice can survive five minutes without me."

With one last look up at the blue figures zooming across the sky, I followed his zigzagged path through the stands as he explained a bit of the layout of the pitch to me. Basically, if I had thought Hogwarts had been confusing, it was nothing compared to the Puddlemere stadium.

It contained 120 private boxes and seated over a hundred thousand people. There were exits that were merely entrances, leading the lost person to the large Puddlemere souvenir shop at the south end of the pitch. Rickety staircases, magically enhanced to withstand the immense weight and to gleam as though made of gold, supported the stands while simultaneously leading to all the Puddlemere training facilities. Then, as Tony pointed out, the most important locations were hidden.

And there was no map.

When we finally arrived at the owner's office, which had a grandiose set of golden double doors and was nothing like the hidden, thrifty alcove where Fletcher's office was, I learned that the entrance merely led to a large waiting room, which contained another set of double doors.

"Dick's a bit of a showoff," Tony murmured quietly to me with a laugh at my dumbfounded expression and then introduced me to Cooke's secretary, a pretty woman in her thirties, and then left to get back to practice.

The secretary, who introduced herself as Grace, offered me a self-thickening milkshake, which I declined. She smiled professionally and offered me a place to sit, gesturing to the array of armchairs encircling a crystal table, which had a Quidditch field etched onto its surface along with the two crossed golden bulrushes, the Puddlemere emblem. I barely had the chance to enjoy the plush, golden chair and take in the many other splendors of the waiting room, which contained an innumerable amount of impressively gleaming plaques and trophies when Cooke burst through the double doors, his belly leading the way.

"Ahh, Miss McCoy!" he greeted me as he reached over to squash one of my hands between his beefy, yet soft, hands. "Come in! Come in!" he urged as he led me into his office and then closed the doors.

Immediately, I was distracted by the enormous glass windows behind his desk. The goal hoops were practically just outside. Certainly, this office must offer a spectacular view of a match. I peered outside excitedly as a navy blue blur flew by.

"Magically reinforced, of course," Cooke told me. "Won't make that mistake again. Nothing quite like a Quaffle landing on top of your morning paper. I got milkshake all down my front! Take a seat!" he added as he gestured to the comfortable chair opposite his before sitting down himself behind his pristine mahogany desk.

His graying mustache twitched as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

I placed my bag at the side of my chair and then fretted with my broomstick in my lap.

"Excited?"

"Very much, sir."

"Oh, no, call me Richard."

"Oh, um, all right," I replied, knowing that would probably never happen. "You can call me Hayley, then, I suppose."

"Well, Hayley, we at Puddlemere United are very excited to have you. Johnny Fletcher was particularly optimistic about your tryout. It'll be wonderful to start training up Dom's replacement. Merlin knows we don't want to lose to the Falmouth Falcons!"

Cooke paused to pour himself a milkshake from a large crystal pitcher shaped like an abstract goal hoop. He offered me some wordlessly, but I shook my head in refusal.

"You're not lactose intolerant, too, are you?"

I shook my head.

"Fantastic! Now, we've got a lot of high hopes for you, like I said," he continued jovially. "We're all interested in going for the Cup this year. I've had my secretary Grace – did you get a chance to meet her? Yes? Lovely. Well, she's been out looking for a stand to display it in my office. I'll have to owl Horace Slughorn and see if he knows of anything worthy enough. Do you know Horace? Wonderful fellow."

"Right, well, I play to win, si—Richard."

"Marvelous! I see you fitting in here already. I suppose it's time to sign that contract, eh?"

Surprisingly, the contract was fairly straightforward. It lacked the typical fine print and legal jargon that normally baffled me. It listed my obligations as a player such as attending all practices, matches, and team meetings and also detailed a bit about my conduct with the media. I was expected to do publicity with the rest of the team, but I was not allowed to call for my own private interviews. Because I had no real zeal to be famous – I merely wanted to play Quidditch at the most competitive level possible – I had no real objection to anything in the contract.

Cooke explained a few of the more complicated issues and then discussed my salary.

I blushed at the numbers he threw out and then settled on a whomping 300 galleons a season. Perhaps Nora and I could finally afford an apartment with hot water that did not turn off five minutes into a shower.

"Well, if everything seems agreeable, without much further ado," Cooke announced momentously as he brandished a luxurious peacock feathered quill and handed it to me. "Sign away."

I dipped the quill into an inkwell on his desk and then signed the piece of parchment in golden letters. My messy scrawl looked a bit out of place beside Cooke's loopy signature, but I felt accomplished nevertheless and heartily shook Cooke's hand when he offered it to me over his desk.

I sat back in my chair and basked for a brief minute before I was distracted by the moving players outside of Cooke's enormous windows.

Because he did not want to disturb practice, Cooke escorted me to his guest bathroom so that I could change once he realized that I was not the type to sip celebratory champagne and smoke cigars with him while discussing the French architectural influences in his office design.

Once I was out of my dress clothes, into my athletic shorts and tank top, and had ditched my flats for my well-worn trainers, I felt much more confident. Cooke offered to lead me down to the pitch, but I let him stay in his posh office and zigzagged through the pitch's stands on my own. I got a bit lost at one point but managed to find grass after about three minutes.

Fletcher found me almost immediately. He wore athletic gear similar to what I had seen him wear at tryouts and the same navy blue cap to cover his gray hair. "McCoy," he greeted me gruffly as he silently guided me towards the mass amounts of equipment located on the south side of the grass field.

"Coach," I answered back as I tried to prevent the smile forming on my lips at the thought that he really was my coach now.

He eyed me quickly and tutted. "Bit of a risk to have you join the team. I lost a lot of sleep at the thought of having a complete rookie play professional Quidditch, but you outflew the rest. You fly hard and you play hard, and we won't have a problem. You game?"

I nodded curtly. "I'm game."

He clapped his hand on my shoulder briefly – awkwardly, in almost a fatherly gesture – and then blew his whistle loudly next to my ear. "Oi, you dunderheads! Get down here!"

Moments later, a bloke flew down and started brandishing his heavy Beater's bat in the direction of Fletcher's head. Instinctively, I backed up a few paces, but Fletcher merely crossed his arms over his chest and sighed as though this was a daily occurrence for him.

"Oi, Fletch!" the brunette shouted with a raspy voice. My guess was that he was a few years older than me. "Why must you always insist on interrupting me during practice? Do you not see that I have bleeding Bludgers flying at my head? Do you not care at all about my wellbeing? What if one of them had conked me on the nose?"

At once, I pegged him for one of those blokes that did not care what he drank as long as it had alcohol. Those types were the best at the end of the night because they usually tipped well - sloppy drunks.

"Stone, you've broken your nose six times in the past year alone. What's one more?"

"But what about my good looks?"

"When did you have those?" Fletcher asked loudly with a straight face.

The player, who was rather fit with his deeply tanned skin and curly hair, despite Fletcher's taunt, froze for a moment, and I kept my eyes on his bat warily. However, to my surprise, the bloke broke out into a huge grin, revealing dimples on either side of his face, and began to snigger as he reached forward to engulf Fletcher in his arms.

Utterly floored, I saw Fletcher pat his back heartily before extricating himself from the Beater's grasp.

Once untangled, the Beater seemed to notice me. His eyes flickered deviously. "Who's the girl meat, Fletch-a-Sketch?"

Before Fletcher could respond, a woman flew down to our level and kicked the bloke in the back before sliding off her broom effortlessly and turning to him on the ground. I noticed that she was also in possession of a Beater's bat. "Lose the smirk, Bryce. We all know that all those Bludgers to the skull have finally turned you into a Fanged Frisbee."

"Jealous, love?"

The woman scoffed and then punched the bloke affectionately in the gut, if there was such a way to do so. She seemed to be the same age as the other Beater, if not slightly older, and had hair that was also brown but a darker shade; it was extremely short, ending around her eyes, and spiked in every direction from having just gotten off her broom. She had a thin but athletic built, a black tattoo curled around her right bicep, and a black bra blatantly apparent underneath her thin white tank top. She turned her annoyed gaze on me, the long scar along the left side of her cheek just ending at where her eyes were narrowing, and I could sense that she was sizing me up.

I tensed my jaw and returned her stare. She was a tequila shooter, but I knew I could handle her. After a few moments, she sniffed and turned expectantly to Fletch. "Coach."

"Where's everyone else?" he demanded.

"Working with Murph," she replied, her voice sounding sultrier now that she was no longer shouting. "They'll be out of the Lab in a few."

"The Lab is what we call the room where we discuss strategy," Fletcher commentated for my benefit.

I nodded.

"It's where all the genius mastermind shit goes down," added the bloke as he winked at the woman.

Still studying me, she did not pay much attention to his breezy flirting at all, though he continued to try to rattle her while keeping up a conversation with Fletcher, who seemed all but unflappable.

After about a minute or so, three more people emerged from somewhere deep within the stands. The first bloke appeared to be just a tad older than I was; he was certainly the youngest person I had seen today. He had light brown hair and a certain warm look that told me he gave fantastic hugs. His drink was either a rum and Coke or warm apple cider. The next man looked like he was in his thirties. The way he walked and blearily rubbed the stubble along his jaw told me that he drank well-brewed ale and probably had at least two kids at home. As he neared closer, I realized that the tired man was actually Connor O'Reilly, a star Chaser who had played for the Irish up until four years ago. Brendan still had a jersey of his from a match we attended in 2002.

Last of the group was a young woman who was one of the prettiest girls I had ever seen. From my prescription to _Which Broomstick, _of which she often frequented the cover, I had seen Bridget Cooke before. What I had not expected was for her to look just as beautiful, if not more so, as she did in the magazine's glossy pages I had always grumbled at and then quickly skipped over. She had naturally tan skin that was glowing a bit from sweat, blue eyes, and blonde hair that looked nice, even tied up in a sloppy bun. Though she was wearing athletic gear, it looked like she was modeling the short shorts and tight tank top she had on. When she started laughing at something, I saw how white her very straight teeth were and decided that she likely drank something awful and fruity like Appletinis.

Once they had joined our group, Fletcher told them to shut up and then discussed a few points about practice before turning to me. "This is Hayley McCoy. She's going to be replacing Dom as our third Chaser."

I waved at the team awkwardly. "Hi," I mumbled, feeling like a First Year stuck in a compartment full of Seventh Years who already knew everything.

"She's so little, Fletch," the male Beater commented as he looked down at my slender build. "You sure she can hack it?"

My fists tightened at my sides angrily, but before I could reply, Fletcher answered him.

"She didn't miss a single pass and can run a kilometer in under 4:00. When's the last time you clocked in under five minutes, Stone?" Fletcher teased.

The body language of the entire team shifted as they subtly stopped eying me dismissively and switched to watching me curiously.

The bloke just grinned. "Just messing with you, Coach. Good to have you onboard, Hayley. I'm Bryce Stone." He reached forward, and I thought he was going to shake my hand; instead, he wrapped me into a sort of hug.

"Our other Beater is Desiree Faust," supplied Fletcher as he gestured to the woman with the rocker hair, who nodded in my direction.

"Your fellow Chasers are Jack Copeland," continued Fletcher as he pointed out the bloke my own age.

Jack grinned warmly at me and shook my hand. "Nice to meet you, Hayley." His accent was proper and smooth, like he had never eaten with his elbows on the table before and always held doors open for people.

"And Connor O'Reilly."

I did my very best to seem cool and not ask him loads of questions about his legendary match in 1994 when he made over sixty goals. Connor stepped forward and shook my hand, as well. "Pleasure," he greeted me simply.

His eyes resting on the gorgeous blond, Fletcher added, "And our Seeker is Bridget Cooke."

"Baby Cooke," sniggered a voice.

I looked around in confusion, and then I realized where I had heard that last name before.

"Yeah," the blonde answered, looking a little sheepish. "Richard Cooke is my father."

"Nepotism," Bryce murmured as he pretended to cough before exchanging glances with the female Beater Desiree.

"And she has some of the best stats in the league today," Fletcher stated.

Bridget blushed prettily. "Well, it was either that or my looks which got me in with the owner," she joked at her own expense.

I smiled weakly and shuffled my hands over my bare arms. So this is what happened when you skipped over the pages with the bombshell blonde. You never discovered that the she was the daughter of your new boss. "Nice to meet you."

She beamed back at me.

"Oh, and there's the last one. Wood! Get over here!" Fletcher called. "Oliver Wood is our new captain now that Dom's retired."

"Our fearless leader," snorted Bryce.

"Cause Connor is too crotchety to take it on," Jack teased goodnaturedly as he patted Connor on the back. "Right, Dad?"

"Yeah, and Oliver's a fanatic," Bridget added.

Bryce and Des started snickering, but I did not have a chance to ask why because when I looked over I saw Oliver, straightening up his shoulders, stride towards us quickly, breaking into a jog before he settled next to Bridget. "What's up, Coach?" he asked in his Scottish brogue.

"Introducing our newest player."

"We've met," Oliver told him with a glance in my direction. "Good to see you again, 24."

"Hey."

"Now that the ruddy pleasantries are over, move it. I want six kilometers - yes, you, too, Stone. Get your ass in gear."

"Aww, Fletch, when you use that tone, sometimes it seems like you don't love us."

"Start running, Stone. Let's go, everyone! Contrary to popular belief, the Falmouth Falcons are not going to beat themselves."

In my periphery, I noticed that most of the players seemed pretty put out by the fact that they had to run. Connor, especially, being the oldest of the players, was already rubbing his knees, as though they had become sore at the mere thought of running.

Personally, I was eager to run; not being able to breathe was cathartic somehow. Plus, the rush was unbeatable. I looked over at Oliver, whose eyes gleamed a bit as he stretched his legs.

"You gonna admit defeat now, 24?" he taunted me with a grin when he noticed I was watching him.

I rolled my eyes. "Please, I destroyed you last time."

"Fluke," he declared.

"If that's what you need to tell yourself."

"All right, 24. Let's see if you can measure up in round two."

Having three older brothers, I wanted to snicker at the sexual innuendo I could find within his words, but I lost my comeback when he whipped his shirt over his head, revealing tan, toned skin, and started running.

For a few seconds, I stood still and admired him.

"Is standing in one spot a part of your new strategy?" Oliver called over his shoulder. He seemed genuinely confused as to why I was not moving, as though he had no idea why he had dumbfounded me.

Annoyed with myself, I grounded my teeth together and began running. I wove through a few of my teammates until I reached Oliver. His lips curled a bit as he picked up his pace.

We ran together at the front of the pack, each taking turns pushing the other. It was actually an excellent exercise for my pacing. My stubborn determination to beat him led to some of my fastest kilometers.

We did not talk throughout, but the sound of our breathing was oddly soothing. More than once, I focused on his bare back as I ran.

It was not like me to lust after a boy like a lovesick puppy. While I appreciated the male form, I had never been one to swoon the way Nora would over a bloke. I especially did not daydream about professing my love to one.

Needless to say, I did not currently have a significant other. With three older brothers, I was surprised that any bloke had the Bludgers to proposition me - especially at the pub. Nora used to tease me at Hogwarts because I was more interested in _Quidditch Through the Ages_ than I was in Jensen Alba, the heartthrob of our year. Sure, I did date and had a couple of boyfriends while at school and had done things that I would never ever let my father know about, but it was never anything too serious emotionally. The blokes understood that I was not looking for anything deep and meaningful - it was just hormones. Most guys actually appreciated my mentality.

However, I did have trouble connecting with blokes because of Quidditch. While most initially thought it would be brilliant to date a girl who knew Quidditch, eventually they resented me because I knew more about it or played better than them. A few had foolishly expected me to stop competing. So I just stopped making an effort with blokes.

I did not get that feeling from Oliver, though. Despite his teasing before, I hoped that maybe he was a bloke that would get it. Of course, I was getting completely ahead of myself. He was a 26 year old Quidditch star, and I still wore footie pajamas when the temperature got very chilly in the winter. Yet, even though I would never admit it to Nora, it was rather nice to be interested in a bloke.

Oliver ended up beating me by three seconds. No winner has been declared until we race again.

Fletcher dismissed the team once Connor, the last person still running, finished the six kilometers.

I followed Bridget and Desiree to the girls' locker room. Bridget, who looked obnoxiously attractive for someone who had just run six kilometers, decided to fill the silence by asking me questions about myself.

I knew that she was just trying to be nice, but her cheerfulness rubbed me the wrong way. She acted like someone who was too happy, like she was trying to use it to cover something up. Perhaps I was merely judging her prematurely; Nora constantly informed me that I was too cynical. I answered her politely but could not help but roll my eyes when she wanted to know my favorite color and whether or not I collected chocolate frog cards when I was little. Those questions did not help to get to know someone at all. She should have asked about my foul throw percentage.

To my surprise, Bridget kept talking even when we were in the locker room, which was very spacious, decorated in blue and gold, and only smelled faintly of sweaty socks, masked by a floral scent. I did not know quite what to do with myself when Bridget undressed and kept telling me a story in just her purple and pink matching bra and knickers without even batting a curled eyelash.

Nora and I did stuff like that, but we had known each other for nine years. We could be peeing and having a conversation. I had only met Bridget less than an hour ago.

It probably would not have been so bad if Bridget had not been so devastatingly beautiful. Just looking at her curves made me a bit sick. I supposed if I looked like that, I would have no qualms about undressing, either.

Nearby, Desiree was doing what I considered to be the normal thing for a locker room, which was to grab her bag and head for the showers.

Bridget continued for about five more minutes before I excused myself to go shower.

I let the hot water soothe my sore muscles for about ten minutes and then got changed back into the clothes I wore for my meeting with Cooke.

When I emerged, Bridget was still in the shower and singing loudly – a Celestina Warbeck song, was my guess from the amount of warbling – and Desiree was out by the lockers tying up her hightop trainers.

"You can have this locker," she told me as she pointed one out.

"Thanks," I replied and then lowered my voice before asking, "is she always like that?"

Desiree laughed. "Pretty much. Gets bloody irritating. She's not a bad person and the nepotism bullshit isn't true, she just -"

"Needs to be suffocated by fluffy bunnies?" I finished for her.

She laughed as she threw her bag, which was covered in dozens of pins with odd sayings on them like _Don't Ask Me to Beat You Off _and _Women for the Advancement of Merpeople – Stop the Fishy Tales_, over her shoulder. "Exactly."

I followed her out of the locker room. "So, Desiree -" I stopped when her face grimaced.

"Des," she corrected me. "My sadist of a mother and Bryce when he thinks he's being cute are the only people who call me by my full name."

"Des," I repeated, noticing how much more aptly the name described her.

Des started to walk toward the exit and then turned around to face me. "Look, Hayley, I don't know you yet so I could end up hating you, but I'm hoping you're chill. You seem decent enough, and I could really use another girl teammate who's not, you know, Bridget."

"That sounds good," I told her, silently very pleased. "You know, if I don't end up hating you," I added.

She smirked and some of her dark hair fell into her eyes. "Late, McCoy."

"Bye!"

Instead of leaving right away, I decided to sit up in the stands for a bit. I waited until all the players had gone home before I took my broom off my lap and stroked the handle longingly.

Feelings of foolishness overshadowed by enthusiasm, I hopped onto my broom and started flying around the pitch. With the wind playing at my long, damp hair, I grinned as I did a few laps.

For kicks, I did a few dives and loops next. The Quidditch dork I was, I began to commentate my own moves in a cheesy announcer voice that echoed within the empty stadium. At first, it was just silly things but then I pretended that I was actually playing in a match. "And McCoy catches the Quaffle and drives up the middle. She's got two Chasers on her back, but watch as she keeps her flight pattern. Look out for that Bludger! She swerves just in time. Heading towards the goal posts now. Seems like she's going to go for the left hoop. No! She feints and shoots into the right hoop. It's good! Ten points for Puddlemere by Hayley McCoy!"

I threw my arms up in victory, as though I had really just gotten a Quaffle in.

"And the crowd goes wild!" I bellowed before supplying my own hissing and cheering sounds for my imagined crowd.

The sound of a single, slow clap alarmed me, and I started on my broom as I searched the stands with a blush on my face from being caught doing something so embarrassing. Eventually, I found Oliver standing in the middle of the grass field and flew down to him sheepishly.

"Nice show," he quipped.

"Er, yeah," I ejaculated cleverly. "How long have you been watching?"

"About four 'Ten points to Puddlemere's ago.'"

"Shit."

"C'mon, don't look that mortified. I can recall a time when I, too, used to pretend I was a famous Quidditch star, well, before it, you know, happened."

I rolled my eyes. "Right comedian, you are."

"But, seriously, McCoy. It's nice to see that fire in someone. You've got to have that."

I beamed as I remembered what it had felt like to fly in the pitch moments before. "Is it always like this?"

"Better," he assured me. "Just wait until your first match. Mine was fantastic, even though I took a -"

"Bludger to the head early on, yeah, I know."

He smirked.

"Ruined your stats for the year. You could have finished third in the league that season, otherwise."

The smirk disappeared. "Rookie season. We'll see how you shape up, 24."

"Well, I guess part of it depends on my captain. I hear he's a bit slow these days."

"Oh, yeah?" he indulged me as he stepped closer to me. "Says who?"

"Oliver! Ollie! There you are!"

Oliver moved out of my personal space, and I looked up to see Bridget prancing towards us.

"Ollie?" I mouthed at him with a snicker.

He sent me a dark look, which only made me laugh harder. I stopped when Bridget sauntered up to Oliver and tugged on his arm.

"Oliver, where have you been? You said getting your playbook would only take a minute. Oh, hi, Hayley! Didn't you leave already?"

"She left something behind, too," Oliver answered for me.

I was immediately grateful that he did not tell her about my little performance.

"Oh, Merlin. I hope you're not as scatterbrained as Ollie, Hayley. I swear he would forget Quidditch if he wasn't so bloody obsessed with it. He's got such a one-tracked mind. I nearly have to write when we have dates on his arm to get him to remember."

I scrunched my nose up in confusion.

Bridget smacked OliveA/r playfully on the chest, and then it became somewhat clearer.

"He's the worst boyfriend ever," Bridget explained fully with an enormous smile that showed off every one of her glimmering teeth. "Right, love?"

"What? Oh, yeah, Bridge."

I laughed humorlessly and avoided Oliver's gaze while Bridget continued chatting garrulously.

* * *

><p>AN:

This author's note is only temporary. Thanks for reading and reviewing. Also, this is mature for all the good stuff: sex, violence, alcohol, cursing. Rock and roll.


	3. Practice

_SAAS INSTANT REPLAY:_

_Bridget smacked Oliver playfully on the chest, and then it became somewhat clearer._

_"He's the worst boyfriend ever," Bridget explained fully with an enormous smile that showed off every one of her glimmering teeth. "Right, love?"_

_"What? Oh, yeah, Bridge."_

_I laughed humorlessly and avoided Oliver's gaze while Bridget continued chatting garrulously._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

**Practice**

* * *

><p>Nora tried very hard not to laugh but could not suppress the guffaw from leaving her mouth as she choked slightly on her piece of steak. It looked a bit odd because Nora ate her beef very raw so there was a bit of blood running down her chin that could not have clashed more with her pearl earrings and sky blue cardigan if it had been a house-elf in a tea cozy.<p>

"It's not funny," I fumed as I shoveled a rather large forkful of baked potato into my mouth to hide my pout. I looked over to see a tear rolling down her face. "Avoiding any severe injury, I'm glad you choked," I told her spitefully.

Because Nora was occupied swilling back water to clear her throat, Carter came to her rescue, as usual. "Oh, c'mon, Hayley, it is a little funny."

"As in drowning puppies is a 'little funny,' then sure. You both have twisted senses of humor."

I crossed my arms over my chest defensively and slumped in my straight-backed kitchen chair that did not match any of the furniture in the eclectically decorated room.

After returning from practice, I came home to the flat to find that Nora had made my favorite dinner of steak, baked potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, and Caesar salad. Both she and Carter, who, like most people, rarely missed on occasion in which Nora cooked, were very eager to hear all about my first day.

Carter Abrams, two years older than us, had never played for the Ravenclaw team while he was at school, not that Nora or I talked to him much at Hogwarts. However, he did know quite a bit more about the game than Nora did.

Nora, Merlin bless us her, was a bit Quidditch challenged. After dealing with me for over nine years, she knew the basics of the game but never seemed to pick up much more than that. She was a much bigger fan of the muggle sport hockey. Nevertheless, she was always there to support me at all of my matches while we were in school. Nora liked to say that while she was not a huge Quidditch aficionado but she was the McCoy's biggest fan.

Of course, I knew part of the reason why she went to the matches with me was to gape at the blokes. Hence, I was not surprised when one of the first questions she had asked me before I had even picked up my fork was if there were any fit players on the team.

At first, I had dodged her question by mentioning Jack Copeland. Nora had always had a thing for blondes, and even though Jack was a bit more of a brunette, I figured I could distract her. Besides, Jack was rather cute in a labrador sort of way.

However, Nora's vicarious lust was not easily thwarted and eventually she had me spilling my guts out about Oliver Wood. I had mentioned him to her in passing after my tryout, but I had not referred to him by name. Once I had explained everything fully, including discovering that Wood was dating Bridget Cooke, Nora had been unable to cease laughing.

"Please stop," I begged finally.

Nora took another quick sip of water and placed a hand over her heart. "I'm sorry, golubushka, but I just cannot believe that you didn't know! Their faces are plastered all over the place. It's been such a media fired thing because _Witch Weekly_ – "

I scowled at the name of that insipid rag. I absolutely refused to look at it, even though Brendan, for reasons unfathomable to me, subscribed to it.

"—named him Most Eligible Bachelor about two years ago, and then he was snatched up by the owner's daughter! More people probably know about their sex life than do about what's going on in the Ministry."

I frowned. I had never relished in celebrity gossip the way that Nora did. That girl consumed scandal because, as she opined, "I fancy my own life a bit more afterwards."

"So? How was I supposed to know?" I argued belligerently.

"Don't you get like five Quidditch magazines?" Carter asked me.

"Yes, but I only read them for recaps on the games. Who cares what the player's favorite way to wind down is or what product he cannot so subtly namedrop for advertising purposes?"

"Oh, Hayles," Nora said with a sigh as she stuffed a mushroom into her mouth. "You've got to sort out your priorities. Only you would look at a boy's broom instead of looking at his...broom."

She did not even have the decency to look embarrassed. I supposed it came down to her heritage. I had only met Nora's extended family once when they visited from Russia, but her grandmamma was a bit of a Blast-Ended Skank.

I sighed. "Whatever, it doesn't matter. It's not like anything was going to happen anyway."

"Plenty of blokes out there," Carter agreed with me. "Ow!" he winced as he rubbed where Nora smacked him in the chest gingerly. "What was that for, Ellenore?"

She swatted him again, her bracelet swinging brazenly on her delicate wrist. "That was for using my full name. Also, how dare you tell Hayley to just back down? Hayles, in all the time we've been best friends, have you ever run away from a challenge? Remember when Collin told you that you couldn't eat one hundred chocolate frogs in an hour's time?" She frowned as we both recalled that day in Fourth Year. "Sure, it probably wasn't the smartest plan because you puked forever afterwards, but you proved him wrong! There's no ring on Bridget Cooke's finger. Oliver Wood is fair - and might I add very attractive - game. Think of this as the ultimate competition."

"Wow, women are brutal," Carter observed.

I rolled my eyes at Nora's little inspirational speech. "You just want me to get a boyfriend so we can double date."

"Yes!" Nora admitted. "But, also, Hayles, I want you to have somebody. It's been ages since you've had a bloke in your life."

"Not ages," I argued.

"You know, come to think of it, Hayley, I don't think I've really seen you with anyone since Nora and I started dating."

"Carter, you are not invited to our flat anymore."

"Shush, ignore her, dorogoy," Nora said. "She's just being pissy because she's single. No triple chocolate fudge cake for her."

I whimpered and jutted out my lower lip pleadingly. "Triple chocolate fudge cake? I'll be good."

Nora beamed and flicked her dark red hair over her shoulder. "Oh, Hayley, sometimes I envy how gloriously simple you are."

"Umm…thanks?"

After my second slice of cake, I took a long shower to wash off all the sweat and chocolate residue and then sat at the freshly scrubbed wooden kitchen table – Carter's doing, he had to earn his squatting privileges – and wrote my family a letter while Nora and Carter went to her bedroom for some alone time. Never having been the best with words, I nibbled on the edge of my tattered quill until I came up with the right thing to say.

_Dear Boys,_

_First day went well. Just had a meeting with Richard Cooke and went on a run with the team. They seem like a nice lot. Coach reminds me a bit of Ayden when he went through that stage when he was 13. Dad, the contract seemed fine to me. I'll bring a copy next time I see you. I met Connor O'Reilly. Remember when Brendan was obsessed with him when he played for the Irish?_

_Well, I better go. I've got practice at six-thirty tomorrow morning. Not quite as glamorous as I thought it would be, but I'm excited to start training. I'll see you all soon. Collin, Nora made triple chocolate fudge cake. I'm supposed to save you a piece but no promises. You snooze, you lose._

_Love,_

_Hayley_

Satisfied, I magically duplicated the letter three times, addressed them, and then had Nora's owl Anzhela deliver them out. A bit wary of Nora's room, I brushed my teeth as quickly as possible, set my alarm for 5:30 AM, and collapsed into bed.

Though quite a bit had happened today and there was much to consider, I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The next morning, I resented the screeching of my alarm for a brief moment before I remembered that in one short hour I would be attending my first official day of practice as a professional Quidditch player.

Eagerly, I threw open the blinds on my window, forgetting that I lived in England where the sun never bloody shone. However, not even the gray mist could put a damper on my spirits. Once I had used the loo quickly, I changed into a pair of navy blue mesh shorts, a sports bra, and a stretchy tank top. Heading back to the loo, I tied on my trainers and brushed my teeth while getting a bit of my stretching out of the way.

With about forty minutes left until practice began, I went into the kitchen and started frying up some scrambled eggs and cheese and made a couple slices of toast. Despite the early hour, I refrained from drinking coffee, which I found always weighed me down, and opted for a healthy glass of orange juice.

Tapping my foot anxiously at our small kitchen table, I was chewing a piece of buttered toast when I heard a low groan and a door creak.

Our flat was small and had thin walls, old doors, and rusty hinges. Thank God, Merlin, and Kennilworthy Whisp for silencing charms.

"'Lo, Carter," I greeted amusedly as he stumbled out of Nora's bedroom. His white undershirt was riding up a bit above the waistband to his checkered boxers. It was not the first time this had happened, but it was always a bit of fun to have a go at him. Single birds had to have some form of entertainment, after all. "Have a nice night?"

He looked around in confusion for a second before turning to me. He brought his hand down from scratching his blonde hair and blearily rubbed at his eyes. "Hayley? Whatchya doing up this early?"

"Quidditch practice!"

He nodded and grumbled back a response I could not make out.

"Don't forgot to put the toilet seat back down," I reminded him as I snickered into my glass of juice.

He gestured his hand clumsily behind his back to signal that he had heard me and then disappeared behind the door of the loo.

I got up and rinsed off my dishes and then grabbed my broom and wand before apparating to the pitch, which was a bit north of London.

When I arrived, I was about fifteen minutes early. Fletcher was already there. As was Wood.

"You're here early," Fletcher pointed out as I walked up to them on the north side of the grassy pitch. "That's good. Dedication is important to the game."

"Aww, Fletch, how do you have a habit of making everything sound like a badly worded inspirational poster?" Oliver teased him as he set down a large equipment trunk he had been carrying.

"You're one to talk, boy," Fletcher countered.

"True," Oliver agreed. "C'mere," he directed at me. "You can help me lug some more equipment out. Sore this morning, 24?" he added when we were out of Fletcher's earshot.

"Nope," I lied as I scooted more to the left to maintain a half meter distance between him and me.

"Really? Cause I would have reckoned that losing yesterday would have had you nursing some sort of pain."

I frowned at his smirk and resisted the urge to elbow him in his toned gut because that would break my new rule about personal space. "Had to let you win, didn't I? Don't want to upset the pride of my new Captain."

He ran his thumb over his lip and grinned before stooping down and grabbing a pewter equipment trunk identical to the one I had seen him carrying before. "What you've got to learn about real Quidditch players, 24, is that we don't let people win."

I missed his expression because I had reached down to grab the other trunk. Bloody hell, it was heavy.

"And we usually leave people sore the next morning," he added softly as he brushed past me.

I nearly dropped my trunk.

Immediately, I felt ridiculous. I had spent far too many years with three older brothers. He was not talking about sex.

When I did not move, he glanced back to see what happened and then snickered.

_Had _he been talking about sex?

I whined quietly, adjusted the trunk in my arms, and then wordlessly followed him.

Thankfully, most of the players were already crowded around Fletcher when we made it back. I heaved my trunk down beside the other equipment and then scampered over to where Jack Copeland was standing. He gave me a friendly, albeit tired, smile, which I happily returned as I appreciated the way normal people were supposed to react.

We stood in comfortable silence for a bit together until Bryce Stone, the smart aleck with dimples, showed up.

Fletcher barked at us to start with a few sprints up and down the grass pitch.

I appreciated the order and lost myself in the physicality, which allowed me to clear my head and focus purely on the game.

After about fifteen minutes of that, Fletcher broke us up into groups depending on our position, and I found myself faced with Tony Deering again.

He grinned at me. "Ready to learn the secret Puddlemere passing drills, Hayley?" he asked me cheerfully as he fiddled with a Quaffle in his hands.

"Sure, Coach."

"Stick with Tony," he requested. "Coach makes me feel like an old geezer like Fletch."

Connor reached up to yank the gray hair on Tony's head with a grin. "Right," he added dryly before stealing the red Quaffle out of Tony's hands.

"Oi! You're one to talk, O'Reilly. It won't be too long till you're in my shoes. How many kids you got now?"

Jack nudged my shoulder with his and grinned at me when I looked over at him. His face was tanned and almost as dark as his sandy brown hair from the hours spent in the sun.

"They're always like this," he told me conspiratorially. "Something about being old makes you think telling the same jokes over and over again still makes them funny."

I laughed and flicked my attention over to where the two men were examining the other's gray hairs. "No kidding."

"So thanks for signing up," Jack added. "You had no idea how bad it was with the Dominator, as well. Three old blokes? I swear, _I_ was getting gray hair at twenty-two."

"You poor bloke."

"Well, things seem to be picking up quite nicely. C'mon, let's go remind them that we've got Quidditch to play."

I grinned enthusiastically. "Let's."

Jack turned to the two men and whistled loudly, using the fancy method with his fingers that always seemed so impressive to those, like me, who could not do it.

While I admired his talent, Jack continued normally and reminded Connor and Tony that we had to start practice before it turned a reasonable hour or Fletcher would be very grumpy.

Tony laughed and then told us to leave our brooms with the rest of the equipment.

Curious, I carefully placed my Nimbus out of harm's way and then trailed behind Tony, who was tossing a Quaffle up and down as he walked.

He led us to the east side of the pitch and then sat down in the grass and crossed his legs in a pretzel formation. Tony offered us all an encouraging smile.

After checking my periphery to ensure that Connor and Jack were complying, despite their sighs, I sat down in the little circle we had formed.

"All right," Tony began, running his palms over the grooves in the Quaffle as he spoke. "I know it sounds a bit mental, but I thought we could spend the first hour today just trying to get a feel for each other. The chemistry is going to be completely different now that Dom's gone. He had a very forceful approach. It was a bit of a bold - I'm plainly coming straight at you so you better get the fuck out of my way - but Dom was so huge that people usually did as he said."

When Tony paused, Connor and Jack sniggered a bit.

"However, now that he's gone, we don't have the luxury of that brute force and fear of getting plowed down by the Dominator. Hayley, while skilled, lacks a certain….mass. But it's no matter! I've brought it up with Fletcher, and we both agree that now is the time to streamline our offensive strategy. I want to try a few new plays that will confuse rather than frighten our opponents, and that will make facing Puddlemere even more terrifying," he joked with a weak chuckle. "So this," he emphasized as he tossed the ball into the air, "is a Quaffle."

Jack coughed loudly.

"Yes, Flapjack?"

The sandy haired bloke flicked his eyes over to me and turned slightly pink as he grumbled under his breath about nicknames. "We know what a Quaffle is, Antone."

"I told you we are starting from scratch. This is going to be an organic process."

"Taken any poppy elixir, mate?" Connor questioned as he shook his head in Tony's direction.

"Coaching you two wankers for four years, and you have absolutely no faith in me. Hayley, you've just been promoted as my favorite Chaser."

I grinned uneasily and then caught the Quaffle he threw in my direction.

"Okay, what I want you to do," Tony prompted, "is pass back and forth. Don't throw to the same person every time and mix up the combinations. No talking, just rely on eye contact. We're working on instinct here."

Connor grumbled something about Tony's head being addled by Bludgers, but Tony ignored it and urged me to start and said he would be back later after he finished working a bit with Bridget.

I nodded and then locked eyes with Jack and threw him the ball.

To my surprise, the exercise was actually quite brilliant. At first, we had to focus a great deal to get each other's attention, but then it started to flow. After a while, I was able to accurately predict to whom Connor and Jack were planning on tossing. Additionally, I figured out that Connor's passes had more strength when he pushed with his left rather than right hand and that Jack's throws often curved to the right. I probably could have closed my eyes and would know who had thrown the Quaffle merely from the feel of the catch.

When an hour had passed, Tony came back with a smug smile plastered on his face. "Not as mental now is it, eh?"

Connor rolled his eyes and then heaved the ball at Tony's head.

"Oi!"

"Sorry, Tony, that was a Quaffle."

Continuing with his basic approach, Tony had us get our brooms and start flying around together. Jack inquired why Tony did not have us put our brooms on the ground and shout up, which earned him a smack in the back of the head from Connor paired with an affectionate scolding about him being a snot-nosed kid.

"Sorry, Dad," Jack had apologized sheepishly, looking genuinely apologetic for being disrespectful.

We tried out a bunch of different formations and unanimously concluded that it made the most sense for the primary offensive group to be me in the middle with my fellow Chasers flanking my sides. Being the lightest, I had speed on my side, and Jack and Connor were better able to thwart any Bludgers or sidelong attacks from opposing players.

Once Tony was satisfied and my bum was already beginning to hurt from sitting on my broom for so long, he brought the Quaffle back out and we began to practice passing patterns. It was difficult at first. We all missed a few tosses, and the blokes had a tendency to throw it too high.

"Oi!" Tony called as he zoomed towards Jack. "She's not Dom."

"Well, obviously," Jack agreed as he looked at me quickly before turning away when he met my gaze. "Honestly, man, we don't want to offend her _lady sensibilities_."

I laughed loudly, and all three blokes turned to look at me. I shrugged dismissively. "Three older brothers," I supplied as my reasoning. It had been ages since I still had the ears of a lady. Part of me doubted if I ever did.

"That'll do it," Connor agreed dryly.

"What I meant, runt," Tony said to Jack, "is that she's not as tall as Dom is. You've got to break the habituation."

"Sorry, Tony, it's just seems a bit impossible," Jack said with a sigh as he slumped over on his broom. "Reversing four years of playing patterns."

"That's why we practice, Copeland," barked Fletcher as he flew toward us. Immediately, we all sat up a bit straighter on our brooms. "For hours and hours and hours until your ass can get it right."

Jack mumbled back a sheepish response and blushed in apology.

Fletcher removed his blue cap from his head and wiped away a bit of sweat before placing the cap back on his gray, thinning hair. "Deering, you can head back down to help with Bridget. She's been struggling with her Wronskei Feint lately. Seems too staged for my liking. I'll deal with this lot."

Working with Fletcher was intimidating to say the least. He had a quiet strength about him that immediately made you respect him. He reminded me a bit of McGonagall from my time back in Hogwarts, but his lips did not thin out the way hers did; instead, Fletcher had a tendency to fidget with his cap when he was frustrated.

His knowledge of the game was pretty remarkable, though. He easily figured out how to adjust the height problems to some of our throws by altering the angles of our positions. As soon as I moved forward a bit and Jack moved more to his right, our passing became much more precise.

Fletcher also worked with us on a rotating pattern in which Jack and I flew in a circle around Connor as though we were one of those Muggle Ferris Wheels, as Connor shot like a bullet down the pitch. I nearly fell off my broom at one point, but we got the basic motion down after about a half an hour.

Unfortunately, because Fletcher was so attuned to the nuances of Quidditch, he easily pointed out the deficiencies in my technique.

"McCoy, that's the sixth time you've pushed with your elbow instead of your shoulder. Who taught you how to pass?"

"My brother Ayden."

"Yeah, well, he throws like a bird…Uh, no offense," he added curtly after Jack coughed loudly.

"None taken," I replied gruffly as I very nearly swallowed my tongue.

"Come with me. We've got some work to do."

I nodded and flew over to him as he gave Connor and Jack a long list of drills to perform.

A small part of me, namely my sore bum, was grateful to get off my broom after three hours of practice. My legs, especially my inner thighs, felt stiff as I followed Fletcher across the grass pitch and into the labyrinth of the stands.

He maneuvered expertly through the wooden bleachers until we passed into a hidden area I had never been to before. I was starting to wonder how vast the stadium would be if all the concealed areas were unveiled.

Fletcher opened a door for me and revealed a large training room. It had navy blue mats on the floor, dirty white walls, and scattered athletic equipment like ankle weights and exercise balls.

"This room is used for corrective purposes to beat the bad habits out of players. Stone calls it the Unforgivable Room."

I sniffed and then frowned at the awful stench of sweaty feet that assaulted my nostrils.

"Don't breathe too deep," Fletcher advised me as he picked up a Quaffle and threw it to me. "Now, McCoy, I want you to pass me that like you normally would."

I paused briefly as I thought about what he had said before about my elbow.

"Don't overthink it. I need to see what you're doing wrong so that I can fix it."

I nodded and then tossed him the ball, which he caught easily.

"Once more."

"And again."

When he caught the ball for the fifth time, Fletcher fiddled with the brim of his cap and then walked over to me. "All right, McCoy. I think I know what the problem is. You aren't using your back muscles enough. You're shoving the ball out there rather than throwing. Your shoulder can't take the whole burden, so your elbow has been carrying a lot of the weight. Does your wrist usually hurt after playing too long?"

I nodded.

"Right. That's because it's had to flick a bit too much to keep the pass on target. That's not the way to throw. You can't get the same speed and force on the ball, and you'll wear out your right arm before you're twenty-five."

I chewed on my dried out lips. So much for my professional Quidditch career.

"So we're going to start fixing that now," Fletcher continued, immune to the Beater's bat he had just hammered into my self-esteem.

If I had thought Tony had gone back to basics, he had nothing on Fletcher. The man critiqued everything I did from how far I kept my knees apart to the slight slouch in my posture.

He guided me through how he wanted me to position my arm and at what point I should be releasing the ball.

Although at first it felt unnatural, when he finally had me practice with a Quaffle, I could feel how much more accurate my throw became.

Nevertheless, after about a hundred throws, my arm hurt like hell; my muscles had not been used this way before.

"Watch the elbow," Fletcher warned me.

Two passes later, he said my wrist had flicked too much.

"Just put the Quaffle down, McCoy."

Defeatedly, I dropped the ball down at my feet. "Sorry."

"No apologizing at the professional level, McCoy," he preached. "You did well, but then you got tired and slipped up into bad habits. Repetition is the key, but I don't want you practicing the wrong way. It's better to do something the right way once than to do a thousand reps repeating the same mistakes. It's going to take some concentration in the beginning. We'll work at it for the next few weeks until the muscle memory gets built up."

I nodded, not quite meeting his eye. "Yes, sir."

"Time to go eat," he barked. "You're no use to me tired and hungry."

Nodding, I followed him to the break room. "And McCoy, we're going to need to get you a new broom. That old Nimbus doesn't make the cut. You'll be outstripped by everyone on the field and their mums."

I clutched my broom defensively to my chest.

"I'll talk to Cooke about special ordering you one. Got to have it hear as quickly as possible if we're going to get you prepared for the first match."

I nodded, and Fletcher dismissed me and walked away briskly, no doubt to go deal with other Quidditch problems.

With a sigh, I walked into the break room. Connor and Jack were already seated at one of the rectangular tables and eating sandwiches.

I flopped down next to Jack and dropped my head onto the table.

"Uh, you okay, Hayley?"

Feeling pathetic, I raised my head again. "I'm fine," I insisted weakly.

"What happened? Did Fletch do something?"

"He took me to the Unforgivable Room."

"Sorry," Connor said from across the table. "Been there. Rather makes you wish they'd just whip out the Cruciatus curse sometimes."

"Yeah, well, apparently I can't throw for shit, and my broom isn't suitable for twelve year old beginners."

"Fletch strips down all the rookies. It's his way of molding you into the kind of player he wants. You're not the first player who needed remediation. I spent ages in there when I first started. Course, I wasn't really supposed to come up from Reserves yet – I was barely out of school – but Catalina Falchek left for the Harpies. I thought Fletch was going to kill me in there. He didn't like my posture on my broom. It was awful."

Connor snorted, his face a bit dreamy as he seemed to recall the memory.

"But it all got sorted out - Connor, don't laugh. .Heck, even the Dominator had a tendency to fly to the left too much when he first started. You just need to bust your ass till you get it right. Don't get too upset," Jack comforted me with a half-smile.

"You have mustard on your nose," I told him.

Jack turned red and frantically began to wipe at his nose.

Connor rolled his eyes and grinned as he offered me a sandwich from a large platter.

My stomach growled at the thought of food. It was nearly noon now, and the breakfast I had eaten before dawn seemed like ages ago. I picked up a ham and cheese sandwiched and then bit into it eagerly.

"One of the Puddlemere perks," Jack supplied as he tossed me a bag of chips. "It's pretty tasty, too. We have to eat in shifts because Fletch would freak out if practice time became idle time, but it's free."

I nodded, and as I chewed at a slower rate, I observed just how delicious the bread was.

I ate more than I spoke, content to respond to their occasional friendly questions and to listen in on the effortless back-and-forth between Connor and Jack. They discussed Connor's progress with the Mimbulus Mimbletonia he was growing (evidently, he was a bit of a herbologist aficionado) and the latest demo Jack's band was working on (Jack's apparently played the piano since he was seven when his mum forced him to take lessons from Madam Mousa).

Though, mostly, they just ate Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. Jack explained that they had been eating them for ages, forcing the other to swallow the more disgusting flavor. Connor swore that he had it the worst with wet dog, but I had to agree with Jack that nothing seemed fouler than a dungbomb flavored bean.

Throughout the course of our half-hour lunch, I sampled beans that tasted like strawberry, chili, chickpea, paper, deviled egg, and sand.

I even finished the whole of a shady-looking black one that turned out to be lava. After chugging four glasses of water as a result, Connor and Jack applauded me.

We headed back to the pitch, and I felt the contents of my stomach churn as Fletcher made us run the circle drill again. The sun was directly overhead of us, and the scorching heat combined with strenuous exercise was making me feel a tad woozy. I was extremely grateful when Fletcher called the team together to have us go lift weights.

The weight room was yet another concealed location within the pitch. There was more iron and machinery than free wall space. Every which way, free weights were levitating in the air. It had bench press bars that could spot someone all on their own and leg press machines that automatically added more weight every time you completed a repetition cycle.

The room was nearly as hot as it had been outside.

When we got inside, Bryce Stone immediately turned on some Weird Sisters music, and my fellow players began silently doing repetitions, nodding along to the music.

I primarily worked my arms and improved my cardio by jumping rope. While I was doing bicep curls, the heavy sound of bass filled the room, and the players all joined in singing along to "Beat It Black (Bludger Bomb)" as they continued their exercising. I almost dropped the weights I had been holding when I first heard. Bryce's screeching clashed horribly along with Bridget's warbling, but, beside me, Jack, his ears going slightly pink when I turned to observe him, had a very pleasant voice.

Des was dancing beside Connor, who was rather an awful dancer.

Looking around incredulously at the scene before me, I caught Oliver's eye; he was the only other person who was not singing. Oliver rolled his eyes and then continued with his bicep curls, a look of deep concentration on his face.

At around three in the afternoon once weight training had ended and Tony had guided my fellow Chasers and me through rounds of shooting techniques, I was dead tired. I knew playing professionally was going to be a challenge, but I had never expected the everyday training to be so physically exhausting. Even my fingers were sore from gripping my Nimbus tightly to ensure I would not fall off it from fatigue.

Before the final run, which thankfully had only been two kilometers and not six, Fletcher had us play a brief scrimmage. I narrowly avoided a few Bludgers and even scored against Oliver.

He was easily the best Keeper I had ever faced – steady and calculating, yet with great instincts. It took me five tries, but I finally got it past him when I feinted right, threw it towards the center hoop and curved it so that it actually went into the hoop on the left.

Oliver had seemed torn between giddiness at my chasing skills and anger that he had failed to block them. That suited me just fine.

Currently, I was shimmying into a pair of dark jean trousers, which I had paired with a plain white t-shirt. My hair was still wet from my shower so I pulled it back into a high ponytail. Normally, I would have magically dried it with my wand, but the wetness against the back of my felt pleasant after sweating in the heat for so long.

Des, who had also showered and changed into a short green skirt, which appeared to be made out of dragon hide, and a black tank top, nodded to me when I entered the common area of the locker room.

We were going out to a Muggle pub tonight. Richard Cooke said, when he dropped by at the end of practice, that he thought it was very important for me to bond with the whole team outside of required times and suggested we all go out for a bit of team building fun. He also let slip that he would not mind if we mentioned some of our sponsors to any reporters we might run into.

However, after heated protests from both Oliver and Fletcher, Cooke agreed that we were better off staying inconspicuous. Evidently, both Captain and Coach felt that since I already had anonymity, they should exploit that to keep my identity secret before the first match with the Falcons.

"This way, none of the other teams will be able to train properly. It's a huge strategic advantage," Oliver had explained excitedly with a manic glint in his eye that appeared when he was discussing strategy, which, I was learning, was quite often.

Des continued staring into a reflective plaque on the wall as she smudged her recently applied eyeliner with her pinky finger. "You good to go?"

"Yeah," I said as I reached down to retie my shoe.

"Good," said Des, ruffling a bruised and bloody hand through her damp hair, as she shoved a few things into her rather messy locker before slamming it shut. "Let's get a move on before – oh, hey, Bridget," she called, her voice dropping to a grumble.

Bridget did not seem to notice Des's disappointment because she was smiling widely as she tied the straps of her baby blue halter top behind her neck. "Hello, girls! Aren't you excited? I've never been to Muggle pub before! Do you really think they pay with paper? How barbaric!" She twittered out a small laugh and let down her hair, which fell down into impossibly long and thick curls over her petite shoulders. She prattled on a bit before eying me outfit with a frown. "Oh, Hayley, pet, did you need more time to get ready?"

I plastered a grin onto my face. "No, Bridget, it's okay."

"Are you sure? The boys won't mind if we keep them waiting just a minute longer." Her voice sounded genuinely kind.

Des must have noticed that I was biting my tongue so fiercely that I drew a bit of blood so she stepped in and ushered us all out of the girls' locker room.

Midway into my third pint of beer, I was feeling much more accepting of Bridget. In fact, I had affection for all of my new teammates. The Muggle bar, The Rusty Kettle, was a bit of a dive, really. It smelled like moldy peanuts and cigarette smoke, but it had alcohol so it was better than nothing.

"It's just so bloody amazing," I sighed into my glass mug. Beer was not my preferred drink, but Bryce said the alcohol was on Puddlemere so I drank what was given to me.

"What is?" Des asked as she turned on her bar stool to face me.

"Being paid to play Quidditch," I answered her, lowering a voice a bit to keep the Muggle bartender and couple sitting a few places away from us from overhearing. "It's so bloody amazing."

Des snickered into her drink. "You mentioned that already, Hayley."

"Then it must be true."

"Maybe you've had enough to drink."

I shook my head, and my ponytail whipped around my face. "Nope. I'm fine. I'm a McCoy. Three brothers, I've got, and all of us can hold our liquor." I sat up a tad straighter. "Really, I'm fine. It's my love of Quidditch more than alcohol that makes me loopy."

"You sound just like –"

"Ladies!" greeted Bryce, beer in hand, as he sauntered over to us with a wide leer on his face. "What are you still doing at the bar? C'mon! We're playing in the back! Evidently, Muggles have this game where they throw these pointy fang things at a circle. I'm up by twenty points!"

"Life is not a constant competition, Bryce," Des told him. "Besides, Bridge is fulfilling in as resident vela mascot. Give us a moment's peace, yeah?"

I looked over my shoulder to see where Connor, Jack, and Oliver were throwing darts. Sure enough, Bridget was clapping loudly and laughing at something or other. I frowned at the sight of her before turning back to see Bryce still attempting to win Des over.

"C'mon, love," he urged. "I'll even buy you another round. That's got to win a bloke something, right?"

"Drinks are on Puddlemere tonight, remember?" Des reminded him coolly as she turned her back to him.

Bryce tugged at his wavy brown hair and sighed. "Look, Des, about what happened earlier…I didn't mean – it just slipped out. Give me a break, okay?" He paused to reach out and grab her hand. "I'm really trying here."

I quickly diverted my gaze and pretended I was not sitting mere centimeters away from Des as she leaned over to whisper something back to him very quietly into his ear. Once about a minute had passed, Bryce, looking a bit forlorn, left and Des's shoulders slouched. "Barkeep!" she called. "Hi, yes, two tequila shots for us over here."

"Okay, go ahead," she said to me dryly when she noticed my curious gaze. "No, wait, hold on." Des grabbed the small glass offered to her and threw it back. "Okay, now."

"You and Bryce?" I brought up in as casual of a tone as I could muster given the circumstances.

Des sighed, her blue eyes rolling dramatically. "Yeah, I know. Bloody genius I am. They always tell you not to throw your Quaffle throw the company hoop. Guess I messed up big time."

"So, you guys are fighting, then. That's okay, couples fight all the time. My brother Brendan and his fiancée are always having a row."

"We're not a couple," Des corrected me suddenly.

"Oh? You're not? I just assumed – but – "

"We used to be a thing – or whatever. At first, it was just sex. Something about him gets me all riled up, you know?"

A few days ago, my answer to that would have been no. Today, however, I was forced to nod my head in concurrence.

"But there were times when he wasn't being a huge prat, and I wasn't acting like a bitch when it was really nice. I thought that maybe I'd even…anyway. It ended a few months ago."

I fiddled with my empty beer mug uneasily. "Uh…what happened?" I asked finally.

"Found him cheating on me with some cheap reporter. They only snogged, but his face was covered in her ugly pink lipstick. Says that he was sick of being my dirty little secret, as if everyone on the team didn't know what was going on."

"I'm so sorry, Des," I told her.

She threw back the second shot, meant for me. "S'okay. I'm over it, anyway. Romance is for twats and people who read Gilderoy Lockhart books. It was kind of my fault, as it was. He told me how he really felt about me, and I shut him down. We're just back to being friends now – teammates. Today, he just had to go and say he -– isn't it the most annoying thing when someone's nice to you? It really pisses me off. I just want to punch him in the bloody nose." She slammed her bruised fist into her palm.

I glanced back over at where the boys were throwing darts. Jack saw me almost immediately, smiled, and waved in my direction. I waved back feebly and then focused my gaze on Oliver's turned back. Bridget's arm was slung around his waist.

"Better off. Fletch hates when anyone from the team gets involved. He only puts up with Oliver and Bridget cause, well, Cooke would probably sack him. Mind you, I think Wood would get a sense of humor before he would let a romance get in the way of playing."

Trying very hard not to seem too interested in front of Des, whom I knew still had not quite approved of me, I sipped my beer slowly before asking, "So how did they end up together anyway?"

"Well, Bridget came on after Saltrina Heyman got hurt."

Remembering the influx of news when the Puddlemere Seeker collided into the goal post practicing on her own, I nodded grimly.

"So that was about two years ago? Didn't really know Heyman that well. I had just moved up from Reserves then. I was a bit older than most because I had taken some time off to visit Egypt. Anyway," said Des pausing to throw back a new round of shots. "Bridget came and was the first girl to ever really pursue Wood. 'Course, it's not as though he didn't get attention, but the bloke is as thick as it gets when it comes to girls. I think he honestly thought witches wanted to know about his strategy – prat. But Bridget must have gotten through his thick skull and, well, I suppose his hormones finally kicked in. Never seen a bloke more likely to snog a Quaffle till I met him. Bridget mellows him out lads, though. Must be the sex," she concluded frankly with a sarcastic laugh.

Des cracked a few disparaging jokes, but they fell to deaf ears because my mind was reeling from this information. Horrible images of Bridget and Oliver started forming in my mind. I felt as though I had just been kicked in the stomach.

"– if that's your type, I suppose. I've never been one for blokes who wear kilts, though, course, he swears he doesn't have one." She paused then and looked at me expectantly.

Forcing the image of them snogging from my mind, I laughed weakly and far too late.

Des did not seem to mind, though, because she was gazing at the back of the room. "I really do hate him," she told me.

I did not know if it was the alcohol, the stress of the day, the lateness of the hour, or the newfound camaraderie between us, but I admitted in a pitiful voice, "I think I fancy Oliver."

Des pivoted sharply and examined me with hard eyes before she turned towards the bar.

"Oi! Barkeep! Yeah! Two more tequila shots for me and my friend here. This time, H, I'll actually let you drink yours."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Molly here. One week, lovelies. I'm going to need a box of tissues...or seven. Thanks for reading. Let me know how you're enjoying SAAS because reviews are the perfect antidote to summer days with torrential downpours and minimum wage jobs._


	4. Match

_ SAAS INSTANT REPLAY:_

_Des did not seem to mind, though, because she was gazing at the back of the room. "I really do hate him," she told me._

_I did not know if it was the alcohol, the stress of the day, the lateness of the hour, or the newfound camaraderie between us, but I admitted in a pitiful voice, "I think I fancy Oliver."_

_Des pivoted sharply and examined me with hard eyes before she turned towards the bar._

_"Oi! Barkeep! Yeah! Two more tequila shots for me and my friend here. This time, H, I'll actually let you drink yours."_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

**Match**

* * *

><p>After that first practice, time passed in a flurry of passing patterns, team runs, and late-night ice packs to soothe my sore muscles.<p>

Nora had been invaluable over the past month and a half. She really must have been almost ready to become a Healer because the healing spells they taught her at St. Mungo's fixed all my cuts and broken fingers.

Still, nothing could have prepared my body for the constant beating it was taking. As we neared closer to the opening of the season, we began to practice on the weekends, as well. Half of my body was covered in bruises in various shades of blue, purple, yellow, and green, and my knuckles had not healed in weeks. Nevertheless, as the summer heat subsided and the leaves began to change colors, I found I was better able to cope with the sheer physicality of it all; it was as though I had built up a tolerance to the Cruciatus curse.

My skills had increased exponentially, and I had worked painstakingly on correcting my throw and stretching more from my shoulder, as Fletcher pointed out at one particularly blustery practice five days before our first scheduled match against the Falmouth Falcons.

"Solid throw there, McCoy," stated Fletcher matter-of-factly as he tugged at his blue cap. "Keep that elbow in line. Copeland, I want you to stop telegraphing your passes. If I know who you're throwing to, you can be sure the opposition knows too. Connor, you've got to quicken those passes. I want you three focused. The Falcons are an offensively driven team. Melis, Frank, and Girbach are damn good Chasers. You've got to stay focused."

Of course, nothing Fletcher did or said compared to Oliver's constant fretting. About a week ago, he had turned a bit funny. He stopped joking around and refused to go out after practice.

"That bloody wanker is driving me nuts," Des, whose latest black eye had almost healed, complained to me once we left the locker room, beleaguered and aching. The wind picked up and played with her shortly cropped hair, causing it to stand up all over the place. "He's got to shut it, or I'm going to…" she trailed off as she made an aggressive twisting motion with her hands.

"Hope you're not talking about me," joked Bryce as he strolled up jauntily next to us alongside the base of the stands.

"Surprisingly not," Des answered him coolly as she shrugged off the arm he wrapped around her shoulder.

"Ol' Ollie, then?" he guessed correctly. "Bloke's a mess. Won't stop muttering about flight patterns and defensive fouls. Don't know what he's so worried about. We're going to make those Foulmouth Fuckers look like they still ride Nimbuses – er, no offense, Hayle," he added quickly as he eyed the slightly worn Zenith in my hands. The team had all been subject to my immense displeasure and slight whining that I was forced to stop using my Nimbus Two Thousand and One.

I shrugged in reply as Bridget flittered over. "Hello, guys! What are we talking about?"

I floundered for something to say as Bryce spoke up, not missing a beat. "The neuroses of your boyfriend."

Bridget's glittering smile turned into an equally attractive pout. "I know," she hissed darkly. "He's been cracking up a bit. I think the pressure of being Captain is getting to him. We were supposed to go to dinner with Daddy last night, and he wasn't even in his flat when I went to find out where he was. We had reservations at the Sphinxes' Den. It takes six months to get those, even with all Dad's connections," she added the last bit in a tone that suggested that this was one of the worst sins Oliver could have possibly committed.

I gnawed on my lip and stared very straight as to avoid seeing the looks on Des and Bryce's faces while Bridget continued to gripe.

"I think we'll all be pleased when the first match is under our belts," Des cut her off, sounding uncharacteristically tactful, which caused Bryce to snicker, his dimples clearly evident as he sucked in the hollows of his cheeks. "I'm gonna head out. You coming, H?"

I shook my head. "I'll be a minute."

She examined me for a moment but then shrugged. "Okay, late," she said as she punched my arm before grabbing Bryce's arm and dragging him away with her. Recalling just yesterday when Des swore that she and Bryce were never ever getting back together, I wanted to comment on this development, but I was eager to be alone so I let it slide.

After a bit more small talk with Bridget, in which I learned about her cat Clementine and her hairball problem from her recent intake of milkshakes designed for felines, she left, as well, and I was free to retrace my steps and meander back into the inner labyrinth of the stadium.

Oliver did not stir as I opened the door to the lab, where I found him, sitting in semi-darkness and prodding figures around a miniature Quidditch set with his wand.

"Wood?"

He started in his chair and then sighed when he saw it was me. "Hell, 24. Knock next time."

"I did. Several times," I told him as I slid into a chair opposite of his at the long table in the middle of the room. I eyed the complicated set before him and the large stack of playbooks beside it. "What are you doing?" I asked gently.

"Melis has a very slight right hook to his throw. If we exploit that, we can shut them out from passing forward. Plus, I know their Keeper Hinsley has trouble with his peripheral vision. You should come at him from the side. And then -"

"Oliver!" I cut him off as I placed my hand on top of his.

He stopped talking immediately, and I quickly retracted my hand, setting it on my knee under the table and out of sight.

"I know. Fletch has already gone through all this with us in this very room. We know almost everything about the Falcons down to where they order pizza from."

"It's Alf—"

"That was a joke."

Oliver sighed, rubbing his hands along his scalp. When he looked up at me, I realized just how tired he looked. There were dark circles under his eyes and dark stubble along his jaw.

"When was the last time you went home and slept?"

"I've, uh, been spending most of my nights here. Don't worry, though. I've been keeping up with my rest. You should too. Don't want to be too run down or you won't play well."

"Yes, Captain," I grumbled, which made him laugh weakly.

I sighed and put my Zenith on top of the table to get it off my sore lap.

"How's she working out for you?" he asked, gesturing to the broom. "I noticed your turns were a bit too sharp at first."

I rolled my eyes at him. "Bloody observant git," I grumbled. "It's going well. The precision is excellent, and the Unbreakable Braking charm is ruddy brilliant. I just…"

"Miss your Nimbus?" he finished for me.

"Yeah."

He nodded and then sank bank in his chair as he deliberated. A moment passed and when he spoke again, there was a dreamy look in his eyes. "I first started on a Comet Two Sixty. I've got it in a case back at home. I think the Firebolt was my favorite, though. It was the broom I got when I started with Puddlemere."

"I used to stare at the model in Quality Quidditch Supplies window for hours."

"First time I ever got to hold one was in my Seventh Year. It was Harry Potter's. Great bloke. Caught the Snitch in less than five minutes in his First Year and later the next year, he did it with a broken arm. Hell of a good Seeker, Potter."

After a moment of awed silence, Oliver looked at me uncomfortably. "What?"

I shook my head. "It's just, I've never heard anyone talk about Harry Potter that way."

"Oh? You mean all that with You-Know-Who? I was at Hogwarts that night. Nasty stuff. Glad he finally snuffed it."

I smiled at him. "You should really go home and get some rest, Oliver."

He nodded and watched me get up and leave.

When I turned back around, he had gone back to muttering to himself and moving around the players on his tiny pitch.

Whether he actually heeded my advice or Fletcher finally banished him from the pitch, Oliver showed up to practice the next two days looking much more put together and well rested.

I, however, kept waking up in cold sweats in the middle of the night after vivid nightmares about falling from my broom or missing every single pass.

I decided to tell my dad about it over dinner on Thursday, the day before the match. Fletcher had made us come in to discuss strategy that morning in the Lab, but he forbade all of us from playing to build up our strength for tomorrow.

"Don't pay it no mind, Hayles," Dad told me as he sunk his teeth into a salad I forced him to eat, frowning as he did so. "Dreams don't mean nothin' important."

"I s'pose."

"Hey," he said comfortingly. "You want to sleep here tonight? I'll let you have the bed and everything. The sofa will do me just fine."

I shook my head, thinking of his bad back and the cramped quarters of his flat. "No, it's okay. I don't want Nora to worry."

"You're gonna be great tomorrow, little girl. Me and your brothers will be right up there, cheering you on. Everything's gonna be all right. Now, can we please quit it with this rabbit food – "

"Spinach leaves, they're good for your heart."

" – and grill something up?"

Chiding Dad provided a momentary distraction, but it did little to soothe the worry constantly on my mind.

The morning of the match, I woke up before the sun rose. I really wanted to go for a run, but I knew Fletcher would _Avada Kedavra_ me for even contemplating such a strenuous activity hours before gameplay.

Instead, I snuck into Nora's bedroom, quickly ensuring that Carter was not there, and slipped under her covers beside her. When I accidentally nudged her side, Nora stirred blearily. She wiped some obstructing auburn tangles out of her eyes.

"Hayley? What are you doing?"

"Shh...go back to sleep."

She mumbled something incoherent in Russian that sounded pretty injurious about my moral character and then drifted off to sleep. I stayed awake beside her, listening to the sounds of her snores.

Nora was only able to sleep for a little while longer because she had another early shift at St. Mungo's. However, after ensuring me that she and Carter would be cheering for me at the match and directing me towards a large stack of pancakes she had made, she hugged me tightly and then Disapparated.

Alone once again, I collected all of my gear and then Apparated to the Puddlemere pitch six hours before Fletcher wanted us there for the eight o'clock match.

Oliver was already there.

I found him sitting in a random seat, midway up the stands, equidistant from both sets of goal posts. Taking my time, I climbed up the stairs, entered the same row, and sank into the seat next to him, with no form of greeting.

Silently, we sat together up in the stands as we waited for the long hours to pass. Our elbows were practically touching due to the closeness of our seats, but we did nothing besides stare out at the sky. Finally, when more people started arriving, we separated without exchanging a single word.

Fletcher, aided by Tony and Bill, sat us down at the pitch ("So you lot can get a feel for the grass. I want a strong kick off.") and guided us through some last minute strategy maneuvers. I watched the chalk figures on his blackboard magically squirm around the different positions in rapt attention as I ignored my fingers shaking in my lap.

At around six, we were all quartered into the break room, which had tables laden down with food. Feeling slightly nauseous, I put a tuna melt onto a plate and nibbled a bit at the bread. Richard Cooke came down with a jaunty smile on his face to wish us all luck before rushing off to go handle logistics.

Oliver kept trying to push us all to eat but touched nothing, himself. When I had forced down half my sandwich, Fletcher sighed and removed his navy blue cap.

The team immediately stilled.

"I've got to get going," Fletcher rasped. "Cooke wants me guiding around the Falcons." He frowned bitterly, as though the idea alone repulsed him. "I want you in the locker rooms in less than five minutes. No funny business. You get ready, and then you go out and play. Weather's good tonight. A bit of wind coming from the west. No stupid errors, no reckless flying. You play like you've been trained. Wood, you'll lead 'em out."

Oliver nodded, his Adam's apple lurching in his throat.

Fletcher twisted with the cap in his hands, shoved it back on his head, and then left the room.

We all sat in anxious silence for a few beats until suddenly Bryce spoke.

"Bloody hell, what d'ya reckon crawled up his bum? It's Quidditch, not a ruddy funeral. Let's go kick some ass!"

Feeling decidedly better, I followed Des to the girls' locker room and opened my locker. Inside, I found my Puddlemere robes. Reverently, I picked them up, sliding my fingers over the glossy emblem of the golden crisscrossing bulrushes and the large "McCOY" printed on the back. I took my time putting everything on, making sure that all the protective leather was positioned properly and triple knotted.

Nearby, Des had in her Jobs's Wandless Earphones and was listening to a metal group called The Dragon Slayers, involuntarily mouthing along the words as she wrapped tape around her bruised and cracked hands.

Bridget, already in her uniform, was seated on a bench with hairpins stuck in her mouth as she pulled her hair into a complicated series of twists on top of her head in front of the mirror on her locker door ("It keeps my hair out of the way for long dives, and still looks good!"). She was having a very strange conversation with herself under her breath.

I stretched out my muscles and did my best to stay limber as I waited for them before we all left to join the others in the boys' locker room.

"You lot better all be dressed because we're coming in," Bridget teased cheerfully as she opened the door.

Immediately, I heard large thuds coming from the back of the room. I looked to see Bryce boxing with a levitating punching bag.

"He does that to get psyched up," Des told me as she went over to join him.

I watched them for a few moments, wincing in sympathy for the poor bag.

"Hayley!" Jack called when he saw me. "Come here! Connor and I are set up over here."

I crossed a row of navy blue lockers and found Connor seated on the floor with a Quaffle in his hands.

Jack and I sat down, forming a circle between the three of us.

"Now, Hayley, this is a Quaffle," Connor told me dryly.

I rolled my eyes as I recalled my first practice, which seemed ages ago. I could barely remember a time when I had lacked bruises. "Funny."

"Why, thank you. You got the stuff, kid?"

Jack nodded and extracted two bags filled with Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans from inside the chest protector under his Quidditch robes.

I laughed. "A jelly bean ritual? You guys are so hardcore," I teased.

"Hey! It works!" Jack defended.

"Better than Dom," Connor agreed as he caught a bag Jack threw him and tossed a handful into his mouth. Then, noticing the confused look on my face he added, "Headbutts."

"Okay, okay, give me some beans."

Jack's ears turned pink as he handed me the second bag, which had only brightly colored ones in red, pink, and yellow colors. "I, uh, picked out the ones I thought would taste good for you," he mumbled, as he blatantly avoided looking at Connor, who was grinning with amusement and trying very hard not to laugh. "You know, for your first match," Jack added dismissively.

"Thanks."

We spent the next twenty or so minutes eating beans and passing the Quaffle lightly between us to get the rhythm going.

The tension picked up again as the minute hand neared the large eight on the clock in the center of the room. At ten minutes of, Oliver called us all together.

His leather Keeper gloves were strewn over his shoulder, and he was clutching his broom with white knuckles.

"You okay, Keep?" Jack asked him.

Oliver nodded roughly and then cleared his throat. He opened his mouth several times again, but apart from a bit of croaking, no actual sound came out. Finally, he just shook his head and headed towards the door leading onto the pitch.

Everyone gathered their brooms and took care of any last-minute things before we all clambered out into the adjoining tunnel, waiting to go into the pitch.

I could hear the echoing roar of the crowd as a loud voice announced the names of the Falmouth Falcons. I was carefully tucking the three hoop charm on my necklace into my robes when Oliver caught my eye. "Hayley," he rasped, my name cracking as it left his lips.

"Yes?"

"Watch your elbow."

"AAAAND our home team, winners of the Quidditch World Cup thirty-seven times, let's welcome Puddlemere United onto the Pitch!"

Beside me, Jack and Connor were mounting their brooms. Hurrying to catch up, I straddled my own broomstick, ignoring the ridiculous urge to throw up all over my new robes.

"Led out for the first time by Captain Oliver Wood. I give you – WOOD!"

Panic set in as I watched as Oliver flew away.

"COPELAND!" In a blink, Jack was gone.

"O'REILLY!" I swallowed roughly and tightened my grip.

"McCOY!"

I guided my broom out of the tunnel and then up into the air. I missed the rest of the names being called out as I concentrated on staying in the air.

Part of my brain registered the ongoing commentary projected through the entire stadium along with the deafening sound of the thousands in the crowd. The stands themselves seemed like a gigantic blur of gray and blue with countless flashings as people took photographs. I flew over to where Jack and Connor had positioned themselves opposite the three chasers from the Falmouth Falcons.

The faces of Melis, Frank, and Girbach, clad in gray and white robes, barely registered in my mind.

Somehow, I had missed Oliver shaking hands with the opposing Captain Sebastian Seagreaves because a warlock in golden robes was centered in the pitch with a large chest, which he magically opened to reveal four balls. With a blow of his whistle a few seconds later, the balls skyrocketed into the air.

The game had begun.

One of the two female Falcons chasers, Frank, had caught the ball and was speeding down the Pitch towards the three goal hoops.

Frantically, I followed Jack and Connor, who were already speeding after her. I zagged between a blur of gray and urged my broom to go faster as my mind attempted to fast forward to what was going on. It was like I was watching the game through Omnoculars set to the slowest setting.

Moments later, Connor had the Quaffle tucked under his arm and was bulleting in the opposite direction. I swung myself around, nearly taking out the gray blur who had been crowding my left side and chased after him.

Flanked at Connor's sides, Jack and I began to fly in a defensive circle around him, blocking any intrusive attack; it was one of the first plays Fletcher had drilled into our heads. I was looping around Connor in a tight formation when suddenly a Bludger came zooming by, narrowly missing Connor's nose.

He dropped the Quaffle, but Jack caught it quickly. He passed it to me, and I passed it over to Connor. We formed a triangle, and I propelled myself into the point position. The Quaffle was back in my possession as we bolted for the goal hoops.

Once we were nearly there, we changed positions, and Jack lead the triangle. I tossed him the Quaffle. He flew towards the left hoop. Then, instead of attempting a goal, he dropped the Quaffle directly below him. Connor was there to make the catch. He launched it over to me, and I threw it at the right hoop with all the strength I could muster, making absolutely sure to throw with force from my back and not my elbow.

The Falcons Keeper, realizing belatedly what we had done, dove for the Quaffle but missed by less than a half a meter.

The Quaffle went through.

I let out a breath I had not realized I had been holding. Instantly, my tunnel vision ceased, and when I looked out, I could actually see thousands of people, dressed in blue, jumping to their feet and screaming in celebration.

"Ten points to Puddlemere by new player Hayley McCoy!" the announcer roared excitedly. "Completely unknown before tonight - been quite a mystery, really – but I'd say we're ready to see some more of her!"

Jack flew over to me with a large smile on his face. "Nice one, Hayley!"

I beamed back at him and then quickly got back into formation; my nerves had disappeared into the dim of the stadium.

A half an hour later, we were up by forty points. Oliver had let in five goals, leaving the score at 90-50. Despite Bryce and Des's best efforts, Connor had taken a Bludger to the thigh, and Jack's right eye was swollen to a point that I doubted if he could see out of it.

Personally, I was still holding up well, despite the fat lip that was forming when the male chaser Melis had elbowed me in the face. I reckoned the Falcons really took their motto, "Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads" seriously.

There was still no sign of the Snitch.

Ten minutes later, the Falmouths' Seeker was plummeting towards the grass like a bolt of lightning, but Bryce aimed a Bludger straight for her head, and the Snitch disappeared.

Currently, I was tailing behind the gray robes of the third Chaser Girbach as she zoomed towards our end of the Pitch.

"And Melis has the ball! He passes to Frank, who dodges O'Reilly! Back to Melis now…Melis pushing forward….Copeland is right beside him…Melis passes to Frank…Looks like she's in trouble there!"

I watched as Frank scrambled to pass the ball to the Girbach in front of me. I sped up and made a sharp angle to block the pass. Girbach was about to barrel right through me when a Bludger came careening at our heads. I ducked just in time, but a distinct crunch let me know that Girbach had been just a tad too late. I heard her groan and glanced over quickly to see blood running down her face.

"And a hell of a Bludger attack from Puddlemere Beater Des Faust! With McCoy and Girbach dodging for cover – looks like that nose is broken! – Falcons Chaser Melis grabs the Quaffle."

Cursing loudly, I tightened my grip on my broom and flattened myself against the wood as I tried to catch up with him. Connor and Jack were doing their best to follow, but they were being blocked out by Frank.

I reached Melis, but I could barely move to block him because he had already hurled the Quaffle at the center hoop.

I watched anxiously but then relaxed when I saw Oliver rocketing upwards. I knew he had blocked it before he even had the Quaffle in his grasp.

"Excellent save there by Puddlemere Captain Oliver Wood! One of the youngest Quidditch Captains in the history of the game. At age twenty-six, Wood's down in the record books along with Flannery Wistera and Plenora Pipent. Score is now 160-130 in favor of Puddlemere. Let's hope we see another sighting of the Snitch soon! I don't know how much longer these Chasers can battle it out!"

I could not help but to agree. Even in the chill October air, I was sweating profusely. I kept having to wipe my hands onto my robes to make sure that I would be able to grip the Quaffle.

Connor currently had possession of the Quaffle. He was making a tremendous effort to get down the pitch with two gray Chasers at his either side. I was flying as quickly as I could, but they were too far ahead of me. Connor kept trying to swerve, but they followed his every move as though they had a permanent sticking charm cast upon them.

All of a sudden, Connor came to an abrupt halt. The two Chasers that had been encroaching upon him ended up colliding into one another.

"Amazing move there by Puddlemere Chaser Connor O'Reilly! Just goes to show how much experience means in a game like this! Course, O'Reilly, at age thirty-six, is the second oldest player in the – Great Scott! Falcons Seeker Armetrius has spotted the Snitch! And it looks like Cooke is right there behind him!"

I did my best to stay focused, but I could not help but to turn to see them race around the pitch.

"And now Cooke is in the lead! She's pulling forward! Left! Right! Now left again! Oh! There's Aremetrius! It looks like he's going to – I can't believe it! Cooke gets the Snitch! After nearly launching herself off her broom, Bridget Cooke has caught the Snitch!"

I blinked as the image of Bridget throwing herself headfirst into a dive with just her ankles on her broom replayed over in my mind.

"And Puddlemere wins! With a score of 310-130, Puddlemere United defeats the Falmouth Falcons! What a finish! They'll be talking about this one for months! I reckon this one will match up to –"

But what exactly the announcer thought, I never found out because Des and Bryce had collided into me to form a massive hug.

"We won! We won!" Jack shrieked as he joined the mass.

Moments later, the entire team was assembled into one huge mass of blue and gold as we screamed ourselves hoarse.

As unidentifiable techno music blared, I laughed freely as Jack spun me around. His right eye, which was nearly swollen shut, looked a tad gruesome underneath the flashing neon lights of Club Hippogriff, a trendy nightclub magically concealed in London where Bridget had insisted we go after the game now that my identity was revealed and we were no longer limited to Muggle establishments.

Nevertheless, Jack was beaming as he dipped me dramatically and then swung me upwards. He did not seem to care that we were not dancing at all to the beat or that the couples around us were not actually dancing, but rather shoving their bodies against each other's - the way Bryce and Des were a few paces away.

Jack had maintained a gentlemanly distance the entire night, ever since he had politely asked me to dance about half an hour ago. While I certainly did not lack coordination, I had always felt very self-conscious about my dancing skills. Perhaps something about growing up in a home filled with boys disabled me from being able to sway my hips sensually against someone. Jack, however, was well-trained and did not step on my toes a single time.

The song changed to a slow warble diddy about love gone wrong. Jack glanced at me questioningly as he offered me his hand.

I shook my head, still breathing heavily, but took his hand anyway. "I don't think I can stomach Celestina Warbeck right now. It'll completely ruin the post-victory buzz for me. C'mon. Let's go find Connor."

After quite a bit of swerving and weaving, we found the bar, which, thankfully, was not as crowded as the dance floor had been. Connor had actually found a seat and was enjoying a pint.

"Kids!" Connor greeted us as we approached him. He had to shout to be heard over the noise of the club. "What is the appeal of this place? I don't get it at all."

"That's because you have daughters, old man," replied Jack, yelling, as well.

I nodded. "Fifteen years ago, you'd be all over this joint, showing off your moves, trying to chat up all the ladies."

"Don't tell my wife that."

I chuckled and then asked Connor about his leg, which had taken a mean hit from a Bludger during the match. After Bridget caught the Snitch, everything was happening so fast that I barely had a chance to talk at length with anyone. Fletcher wanted us to get out of the pitch as quickly as possible to avoid any run-ins with the press. He explained that it would be better to discuss the events of the match as a team before anyone spat their mouths off to _The Daily Prophet _or _Which Broomstick_.

In less than twenty minutes, we had been checked out by medi-witches, showered, changed, and had Apparated to this club.

Connor relayed what the medi-witch had told him and assured me he would be fine as Jack, who had been calling "Barkeep! Sir!" for the last two minutes, finally managed to flag someone down after politely waiting his turn.

"What would you like?" a harried-looking wizard asked as he added salt to a rim with one hand while cleaning up a spill with his wand. Even as he came up to us, at least a dozen other customers started shouting for his attention.

"Milk," Connor muttered to me.

"I'll have whatever she's having," Jack said as he turned to me. "What'll be, Hayley?"

"Seven shots of sours, please!" Des called as she appeared suddenly behind Jack and hugged his middle. "And make mine a double."

"Des!" I greeted cheerfully.

"H!" she replied.

Bryce came over and stole Connor's drink. "Oi!"

"No worries, mate! I'll get you another! We're celebrating! Oi, Barkeep!"

The wizard had returned with our shots, which he deposited on the bar in front of Des while wiping up a bit of sweat from his forehead.

"Can I have another pint for my friend, Connor O'Reilly, here?"

The wizard nodded, turned to leave, and then did a double-take. "Are you lot…?"

"Puddlemere United! Puddlemere! Puddlemere! Puddlemere!"

"Oh, look, there's Oliver!" screeched Des over the music and our chanting. "And he's got Bridge with him. Merlin, she's titchy. Oi, OLIVER! OVER HERE!"

Des passed out the shots and then gave one each to Oliver and Bridget when they found us.

"Where've you been?" Jack asked as he gave Bridget a hug in greeting. "We had a hell of a time finding this place without you!"

"Got held up by Fletcher," Bridget answered as she shook out her long curls. "But no more shop talk tonight!"

"Ahh, but Bridge, that was a hell of a catch. Your best one yet, I'd say," Oliver said with a childlike enthusiasm.

I looked over at him. He had changed out of his robes but was still wearing navy blue – a dress shirt that was rolled up to his elbows. His smile was overly enthusiastic, and his eyes were bright, despite the dimness of the club; even his posture seemed to suggest pure elation.

I averted my gaze as Bridget pulled him into a kiss.

"Now that that's over, maybe Oliver will actually behave like a functioning human again!" she teased him.

"I'll drink to that!" Bryce called as he toasted his glass.

"Cheers!" Des agreed.

"Barkeep! Another round!"

Once we had toasted Puddlemere, Bridget, Oliver, myself, and for some reason, Weasley Wizard Wheezes, everyone was extremely jubilant.

I snickered as Bryce and Jack dragged Connor out onto the dance floor and forced him to dance with them.

Des and I danced for a bit, as well, as Bridget shimmied around Oliver, who sheepishly stepped back and forth against the beat.

Around two in the morning, exhausted, I ventured back to the bar. My early morning jitters were beginning to take their toll, and I was struggling to remain upright. Additionally, the numbing effects of the alcohol and adrenaline were wearing off, and the soreness in my body was kicking in.

Because I had no desire to end the night by splinching myself, I asked the Barkeep when I finally got his attention if he would bring me some Floo Powder.

Somewhat comforted by the familiar smell of alcohol and drunks, I was waiting for him to return when Oliver came over with his hands shoved into his pockets.

"Where's Bridget?"

"Loo. She's got a tiny bladder."

I snorted and then fell silent as I remembered this morning when we had sat together before the game. Nothing had happened beyond two teammates dealing with nerves, but looking back on it, it felt so strangely intimate.

"You leaving, 24?"

"Oi, you can't call me that. I'm official now."

"Still your Captain."

"Uh-huh," I tutted before yawning.

"You should probably head home. Fletcher wants us all at the pitch regular time tomorrow."

"I thought he was kidding!"

"He doesn't joke around a lot," Oliver agreed with a smile as he reached up to rub the back of his neck.

"Except, I'm pretty sure it was him who put that frog spawn in Cooke's milkshake pitcher."

"You're joking!"

"No!" I insisted with a laugh. "I'm completely serious!"

"No way, he'd never – "

"Miss, here's your Floo Powder."

I turned away from Oliver and thanked the Barkeep, who was staring at Oliver with his mouth widely agape. "Well, I guess I'll be going," I said as I played with the bag of powder in my hands.

Oliver nodded. "Yeah. I should go find Bridget. She's probably looking for me. Nice flying tonight. That move you did at the end? It was very impressive. You'll have to explain the logistics to me."

I ducked to hide my grin, trying not to overtly show how much his praise meant. "Yeah, sometime, maybe. Night, Oliver. See you tomorrow."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Thanks, as always. We appreciate your reviews, assuming you leave one._

_Also, we are both very eager to discuss the movie! If you fancy a chat, go for it! Molly did not spot Oliver Wood so she has resigned herself to the fact that she'll have to watch it many more times to rectify that situation. _

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><p><em>It is a very fine day to be a Harry Potter fan.<em>


	5. Promotion

_SAAS INSTANT REPLAY:_

_I turned away from Oliver and thanked the Barkeep, who was staring at Oliver with his mouth widely agape. "Well, I guess I'll be going," I said as I played with the bag of powder in my hands._

_Oliver nodded. "Yeah. I should go find Bridget. She's probably looking for me. Nice flying tonight. That move you did at the end? It was very impressive. You'll have to explain the logistics to me."_

_I ducked to hide my grin, trying not to overtly show how much his praise meant. "Yeah, sometime, maybe. Night, Oliver. See you tomorrow."_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

**Promotion**

* * *

><p>The elation from our first victory lasted past Halloween. Practices that were meant to be for discussing what we could have done better turned into long-winded play-by-plays of some of our best moves. Bridget, who even on her worst day shined, seemed extra radiant after her superb catch. Oliver had resumed somewhat normal behavior. Des and Bryce were so happy that they forgot to be horrible to each other. Even Fletcher could be spotted sporting a few smiles.<p>

As for myself, every time I thought of the match, my heart would beat just a bit faster. I could not wait to get back into the air and do it again. Plus, there was new confidence between Jack, Connor, and I. Now that we were officially recognized, our ability to read each other had increased exponentially. Of course, I tried very hard not to let myself get too complacent.

Nora was finally able to stop stress baking (the days leading up to the match had resulted in so many jam thumbprints that Carter was able to transfigure them into an armchair). While this was not entirely favorable, I did notice that the ghost cookies she made for Halloween did taste better than they normally did; she said it had something to do with cooking with love rather than with spite.

Mostly, though, it was great to see my dad so excited. At our annual Halloween party at McCoy's, he told everyone and anyone who could hear or was using Extendable Ears that I, his daughter, was a Chaser for Puddlemere United.

"And did you see that very first goal she made?" he said to a group of young lads at the bar dressed up like a werewolf, centaur, and leprechaun.

"Bloody amazing!"

"You bet your ass it was. Hayle's always been so talented at Quidditch. Couldn't tear her away from her broom when she was younger," he gushed as he beamed sloppily at me.

I colored slightly, both at his compliment and at the sight of the ridiculous clown makeup he insisted on wearing every Halloween.

"That her?" the leprechaun inquired as he looked me over.

"Sure is."

"Irish got to stick together," the leprechaun said, commenting on the Irish t-shirt I wore to dress up as a fan every year.

"Look at her like that again, and I'll Bat Bogey Hex you," I could hear Dad threaten before going over to another group to sing my praises.

And so the euphoria had continued until one particularly wet morning when Fletcher showed up to the field at practice looking very much like he had been forced to swallow a Mimbulus Mimbletonia.

"Lab," he snapped, a bit more gruffly than usual. Though it was still early in the week, Fletcher's euphoria had waned days before. We had a match coming up this Saturday already against the Appleby Arrows.

Somehow, the joy from winning the first match after months of preparation and fretting had made me forget that we would be playing matches nearly every week. Though I did not take any new opponent lightly, I was much more relaxed. I was very serious about winning, but the confidence gained after our first match reminded me about how much fun playing Quidditch was. Really, I was eagerly looking forward to the long season ahead of us, not nervously awaiting it.

However, judging from the stony way Oliver set his shoulders, he was expecting Fletcher to scold us for becoming too soft.

Depositing our brooms over our shoulders, Des and I sent each other weary looks before falling into the huddle of wet Quidditch players heading towards the stands. We ended up behind Bridget, who was wearing a very bright yellow rain cap with large flaps. Somehow, we managed to control our snickers for the three minutes it took us to get to the Lab.

Once everyone was seated around the table, Fletcher took off his cap.

I noticed something was off immediately. Fletcher usually got a gleam in his eye when he was about to drill us a new one. The expression on his face, however, reminded me of my own when I found out Quidditch was cancelled in my second year when that Triwizard Tournament was held.

"Richard," he said slowly with more than an ounce of bitterness, "has just informed me that tomorrow _Which Broomstick _will be coming for a…photoshoot." He uttered the last word as though it physically pained him to say it aloud.

There was a collective slumping of shoulders, with the exception of Bridget, who clapped her hands in excitement, much the way I had seen her father do on many occasions.

"Aww…c'mon, Fletch, man, can't you have them use their magic on an old picture of us and call it a day?" Bryce opined as he kicked his legs up on the table.

With a murderous glance from Fletcher, Bryce recanted. "…Or not."

"How long do you reckon it'll take?" Jack asked. "We've only got four days before we play the Arrows."

"Richard says that we should be prepared to have it take all day," Fletcher muttered. "I've tried to put it off for as long as possible, especially with wanting to keep them out of the loop with McCoy, but it seems it's inevitable. At least, that's what Richard has told me when he reminded me that without him, we can't play."

"But what about training?" asked Oliver, who seemed finally to have found his voice.

Fletcher just shook his head.

"Then I reckon we'll have to do it," said Oliver stoically, as though he was about to face a dozen dragons rather than a few photographers.

A pregnant pause swept over the room, as though Oliver's comment had cemented the repugnant idea into a glooming reality.

Silently, I eyed the white scribbles on the blackboard and thought about all the plays Fletcher wanted us to learn before Saturday's match.

I felt more trepidation than distaste. I had never been very photogenic. Plus, my dad was never big on pictures so I was fairly certain that the last time I had formally been photographed I had still been in diapers.

"Oh, come on, you lot," Bridget said exasperatedly as she examined the surly faces around the table with her perfectly gleaming smile. "If you can handle Bludgers zooming at your head for hours on end, you can deal with a few pictures….unless you're all a bunch of flobberworms."

This effectively shut everyone up.

Fletcher jammed his cap back on his head. "Right. Enough with this. We'll deal with it tomorrow. Right now, we need to focus. In four days, we are facing the Appleby Arrows. Now, Wood, I want you to alter your whole defensive strategy. The Arrows don't have the best Chasers, but they are bloody tricky. Reckless and inaccurate, but sometimes that's more dangerous than precision. O'Reilly, Copeland, McCoy, you lot better listen up too…"

And as Fletcher continued for over an hour about the specifics of our new opponents' technique, I got lost in Quidditch and forgot all about tomorrow's unexpected task.

The next morning, after my shower, as I cleared the steam off of the bathroom mirror, the anxiety started to kick in. With a frown, I fastened my towel and examined my freshly scrubbed face. I was no great beauty, but with my hair arranged nicely and the right lighting, I supposed I could be called attractive. My dad always said I was beautiful.

However, this morning was one of those days when I could not see the good attributes at all; instead, I focused on limp, dark hair, dull mud colored eyes, and freckles.

With a sigh, I slapped the bathroom mirror and then went to go get changed so that I could eat and head off to the pitch.

I headed straight for the girls' locker room to change into my navy blue and gold Quidditch robes. Cooke wanted us all in uniform for the photographs. It seemed almost blasphemous to don the gear for the frivolous purpose of taking photos, but I had signed a contract.

Once changed, I made my way onto the grass of the pitch. Though Fletcher, shockingly, was nowhere to be found, I saw Richard Cooke almost as soon as I entered. He was patting Oliver on the back with his meaty hand as Bridget prattled on.

"I told you we should not have gone to that restaurant! If only we had kept our reservation at the Sphinxes' Den!"

"But, Bridge, love, they had a wonderful bouillabaisse. Eh, Oliver?"

"Dunno, sir. I'm partial to steak."

"You boys! Oh, Hayley! Wonderful!" Bridget greeted me with a smile when she noticed my very poor attempt at blending into the morning shadows and ignoring their pleasant banter. It was much too natural for me not to feel out of place. "We were just talking about dinner last night. Oliver finally made up for not ditching us. Do you remember?"

She missed my nod because Oliver, looking a bit sheepish, apologized to her.

"It's okay, Ollie. Just a bit of notice would be nice, yeah?"

Richard clapped his hands together. "Oh, I do enjoy a good lovers' spat, don't you, Hayley?" He did not wait for me to respond before continuing. "Course, I do appreciate that everything is quite patched up. Would not want to see my little girl unhappy. So, Hayley, how are you this morning? Excited for the photoshoot?"

"Well, actually…"

"Excellent! I do say it's going to do wonders for your career. A young Chaser plucked out of anonymity and suddenly in the buzz of the Quidditch world. Such a smart move to have kept the mystique going for so long. Bully to Oliver for being so clever with that whole scheme. Once he grows too old, who knows? Maybe he'll be sitting in my chair someday!"

I chanced a glance over at Oliver and wondered if Cooke had brought up this idea with him before. Was Oliver biding his time until he could control his own Quidditch team?

Cooke's voice reached an unparalleled level of enthusiasm, and I began listening to him again.

"But, now, of course, it's time to unveil everything. I'm sure all of Britain will want to know absolutely everything there is about you, Hayley."

I sank my teeth very roughly into my tongue. "How keen."

"Yes, yes, indeed," carried on Richard, ignoring my abrasive tone. "Oh, look! There's Connor! Good morning, my fine fellow!"

Connor rubbed his tired eyes blearily and frowned; likely, he was a bit too exhausted at 6:30 in the morning to abide Cooke's flamboyancy. Luckily, however, Jack quickly followed; Jack, of course, politely endured all of Richard's verbal poking and prodding without a single complaint.

I decided that in my next life I would like to come back as wonderful a person as Jack Artemius Copeland.

Shortly after Bryce and Des trudged towards our group, both with sour expressions, the camera crew from _Which Broomstick _arrived.

I watched with a sort of morbid curiosity as the five workers began to enlarge the contents of one small bag into massive pieces of equipment such as backdrops, spotlights, and large, professional cameras.

When I noticed the piles of makeup, I looked away and tuned back into the conversation of my teammates.

"Morning, Wood!"

"What, Jack, really?"

"Shut up, Bryce, you're such a toerag."

"Always sunshine in the morning, Desiree. Damn, Con Man, you look like shit. They're going to have a hell of a time disguising that."

"Yeah, well, the twins would not go to bed last night. You have kids, Stone, and then we'll see what happens to you."

"But didn't you want to get all nice and petrif—I mean, prettified for today?"

"Yeah, well, you tell my wife that she can't go to bed because I've got a photoshoot in the morning. Merlin, Bryce, no wonder you're still single."

"Oi! I've changed my mind. You look like a piece of shit took a shit that threw up. That's you."

"Bryce!"

"Oh, stop pretending you're so innocent, Copeland. We know you're just dying to look fit today. Hoping someone will notice you. I know all about your little – "

"Shut your gob before I do it for you," hissed Des menacingly as she pulled out her wand.

Bryce, looking genuinely alarmed for a second before shrugging his shoulders casually, shoved his hands into his pockets.

Des stuffed her wand back under her Quidditch robes and then turned to me. "I bloody hate when they make us do this," she muttered to me. "Why can't they just fuck off? Who ruddy needs to see our faces plastered everywhere? Fuck, it's days like these when I wish I hadn't quit smoking."

Not knowing how quite to respond, I settled for chuckling weakly and almost nodding.

"Just do what they say and get it over with. Try to stay to the back. It's what I always do. Don't say anything, either, because they'll just transfigure it into something else. Bloody twats."

"Okay, everyone!" announced Cooke enthusiastically as he joined us again with a bloke and woman with him. The bloke was wearing heavy eyeliner, and the female had shockingly orange hair that had been magically enchanted to glow, as though it was on fire; it only served to enhance how pointed her nose was. She looked like a human phoenix bird.

"We've got to do a bit of makeup on you all first. Nothing extreme – Desiree, kindly do not make that hand gesture again. Just a brief touchup, is all! Asher and Talon will have you all looking your very best as the rest set up the lights! We're doing it right here on the pitch. It was my idea. I though a natural setting would be…"

"Which one is Asher and which one is Talon?" Jack hissed in my ear as Cooke continued to jabber on.

"Maybe Talon is the girl?"

"But look at the nails on that bloke. That's just unnatural."

"…Please show them your utmost cooperation, all, and remember that you are representing Puddlemere," he concluded with a low voice.

His speech was met with highly uncooperative scowls, with the exception, of course, of Bridget.

I stifled my laughter as the pair started siphoning makeup with their wands and smearing it over Connor and Bryce. Connor was a bit of a project due to the purple rings around his eyes, but Bryce was done rather quickly.

He looked the same, but they had added a bit of powder to make his cheekbones stand out, and they had magically removed the persistent stubble from his jaw.

Jack was next. His genial smile seemed more like a grimace as the man approached him, his electric blue nails gripping his wand. "Er, please don't make me look too silly. My mum will probably see these photos."

Of course, Jack turned out fine; his tanned skin hardly needed any touchup.

Unfortunately, Des, beside me, was having no such luck. The woman with the flaming hair kept trying to cover up Des's scar along the left side of her face, only to have Des back up a few paces without saying a word.

Personally, I did not know why the woman kept trying. If anyone looked at me with Des's current expression – the utmost loathing and contentment – I would probably have run the other way.

"Uh, maybe you should just leave it alone," I intervened quickly.

The witch jabbed her wand to fix Des's smudged eyeliner and then turned to me.

I gnawed my lip uncomfortably as she examined my face. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bloke approach Bridget and then turn towards Oliver without adjusting a single thing. Des was wiping at her eyes.

"What have you done to your eyebrows?" the witch asked me in a girlish voice that I had not expected.

"Umm…nothing?"

"Well, it shows."

Behind the witch, Des had picked up her Beater's bat.

"Why don't you just slap some lipstick on me and call it a day, yeah?" I said coolly, trying to mask the urgency in my voice.

The witch must have caught a glimpse of Des—or at least her bat— because ten seconds later, I was declared finished.

Talon and Asher, whose names I still could not assign with confidence after I had seen the peculiar sets of slashes in the back of the woman's robes, guided us over to where the lights had been set up and started setting us up into a group shot. We were put into a triangle formation, and we each took different turns at the front, apart from Connor who was deemed "too old" and Des, who simply refused.

I felt very ridiculous with my broom posed over my shoulder in an awkward position that I would never normally stand in as I was told to smile, scowl, or look "wizard fierce."

Moreover, the brightness of the lights with every flash hurt my eyes, which watered with each successive shot.

"Oh! I sneezed," drawled Bryce somewhere behind me. "Pity. Still use that one, though. I'd love for Quidditch fans out there to watch for my mucus. It'll send the perfect message about what Puddlemere is about."

"Don't make this take any longer," Des spat in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Just hold it together a bit more," Oliver opined, sounding strained. "It'll all be over soon."

Unfortunately, Oliver was wrong. After the initial group shot, Cooke wanted to take group, individual, and couple shots. "As long as you're here," he said jauntily, "I may as well get my money's worth."

From that point on, things got rather confusing. They kept calling up more people to introduce into a shot or to turn this way or that. They made me take down my hair for a picture with just Des and Bridget and then put it up to do poses with Connor and Jack.

It seemed that simply one photograph could never suffice. I had no idea who would possibly want to see so many angles of my face.

"Stop doing that with your chin!" the photographer, a wizard with a dark goatee and no eyebrows spat for the forty-second time (I had been keeping track).

I finally got a bit of a reprieve when they wanted to focus on the Beaters. They put Des and Bryce back to back and had them hold their bats menacingly. Bryce kept breaking character and laughing; Des looked very much like she had swallowed a Hungarian Horntail. Eventually, they were dismissed and Bridget and Oliver took some couple poses. The photographer and Cooke seemed keen on posing them romantically, but Oliver looked very uncomfortable and kept reaching for his keeper gloves.

As Des, wringing her bat in her hands with a surly expression on her face, approached me, I worked very hard to focus on her and not watch the couple before me interact.

Twenty minutes later, I thought we would be done, but Cooke intervened before the camera crew could leave. "Not so fast!" he tutted as he waved his arms around. "We're forgetting the most important bit! This is our opportunity to formally introduce Hayley to the public! We must have a few shots of her!"

I blanched. "Oh, no, God, no—" I protested heatedly.

"Oh, Hayley, don't be modest. It is your big debut, after all."

"No, really, it's okay," I pressed.

"Nonsense! Get up here, Hayley. I insist."

Gritting my teeth, I trudged back underneath the lights.

"Hair down again, please," the photographer requested. "It'll give more sex appeal."

I blushed darkly, and he snapped a photo. I squirmed as he sashayed around me with his camera, occasionally telling me to pick up my broomstick or hold out a Quaffle.

"C'mon, Hayley, let's see a nice big smile! Say 'Puddlemere!'" Cooke urged me.

"Puddlemere," I growled.

"Something's missing." Cooke must have sensed my extreme discomfort because he stared at me in puzzlement for a second before snapping his fingers excitedly. "Oliver, get in there with her."

"Um, excuse me, sir?" Oliver asked beside Bridget.

"You heard me! Oho! This is excellent! We'll introduce Hayley and show the face of the new Captain! A new edge to the Puddlemere Blue!"

Cooke was speaking with such gusto that all of the players, who had been talking in groups, turned to look.

"Oh, erm, all right, I suppose," Oliver said as he walked over to me. He stopped a few paces away from me and then turned expectantly at the camera. "Shoot."

"Oh, Oliver, you're completely hopeless!" chided Bridget with a lovely smile as she watched beside her father. "You need to get closer together. They'll need to take two separate shots the way you are now. Honestly!"

A rosy pink tinged Oliver's high cheek bones, but it was not very obvious because of how deeply tanned his skin was from the incessant practicing. He shuffled closer towards me so that we were both standing, stony-jawed in front of the camera.

"No no no!" Bridget griped. "You need to show camaraderie! Get behind her and put your arms around her! You're such a spaz sometimes, love."

I focused very hard on keeping my face clear of any emotion, but it was very difficult to hide my mortification and fleeting panic as Oliver positioned himself behind me. I shot a pleading look at Des, who shrugged apologetically. Beside her, Jack was frowning.

"Get together now!" Cooke urged.

Very tentatively, I felt Oliver place his fingertips on my shoulders. My heart rate picked up.

"Now stick your head out, Oliver! You're getting lost in the frame!"

He inched closer so that his torso was pressed up against my back as his arms circled around me; he stuck his face into the crook of my neck.

With much difficulty, I attempted not to breathe. When I finally did, I smelled pine, sweat, and a scent I could not quite name but would gladly sniff for all of eternity.

The photographer placed a Quaffle in Oliver's hands and told me to hold it with him. Slowly, I reached up to place my hands by his much larger ones.

"Much better," Cooke said, as though he had just negotiated a pair of toddlers into the proper pose. "Now smile! I want to see some life on your faces!"

Oliver gave a shaky laugh, and I felt his stomach muscles contract against me.

"Stop gnawing off your lip! Chin up!"

I nodded and squirmed.

"Relax," Oliver whispered soothingly into my ear, causing some of my hair to shift. "Think about flying. Always helps get me through."

While it was sound advice, I could not seem to concentrate on anything else besides the closeness of our positions. I could see each and every one of Oliver's eyelashes.

"Now toss the ball and smile!"

We tossed and plastered phony grins onto our faces. The photographer snapped a few photos, and I blinked from the brightness of his flash. I could hear Oliver's breathing as it fell into an odd syncopated rhythm with both of our heartbeats.

"Splendid!" Cooke congratulated as he clapped his hands together. "Great job, everyone!"

As though I had been riding my Zenith, I swiftly dodged and escaped Oliver's arms. I was about to dart away when he called my name softly.

"Yes?" I replied, still somewhat dazed.

"On Sunday mornings, I like to go for a run around the park just down the road from here. It helps to clear my head and maintain my endurance on days when we don't practice out on the pitch. Would you, er, that is, do you want to join me?"

A few seconds passed as I stared at him in surprise.

"Oh, er, never mind then," he dismissed quickly.

"Wait," I whispered as I grabbed his arm.

"Oh, you two! That was such an adorable photo!" Bridget said as she trotted towards us.

Immediately, I removed my hand and took a sizable step away from him.

"I wouldn't be surprised if it made the cover. That'd be nice. I'm so sick of them always using me. It's a bit awkward, you know?"

Neither Oliver nor I really knew quite what to say.

"And now just a few quick questions to go along with the pictures!" Cooke announced as he urged a very eager looking young wizard towards us.

I doubted that he heard the muttering that came from Des after that announcement because he was still smiling broadly.

"Hayley! Why don't you begin?"

The blood drained from my face. My eyes wide, I froze.

"Go on, Hayley," Bridget said as she gave me a little push.

I stumbled towards the interviewer, who brandished his quill with a flourish.

"Octavius Kipley," he offered. "Pleasure."

I nodded dumbly.

"So, Miss McCoy, what has been the most challenging part of your transition to Puddlemere?"

I barely heard the question as I stared at where Oliver and Bridget were talking. She was touching his chest and smiling widely. I frowned. Less than a minute ago, Oliver had asked me to go running with him. Surely that was an intimate invitation? I mean, it was _running_.

What was he playing at? Why would he ask me to do that when he was dating Bridget? Did he mean it as friends? Was that what we were?

Watching Oliver nod along to whatever Bridget was explaining, I felt sick to my stomach with jealousy. I ground my teeth together.

Still, a small part of me glowed with hope. Oliver had not asked Bridget to join him; he had asked me. That had to mean something, right?

Or perhaps he just saw me as a teammate with good endurance, and he did not want to bother Bridget.

"Miss McCoy?"

I quickly turned my gaze back to the interviewer's eager expression. "Er, what?"

He repeated the question, and I mumbled something incoherent back to him in response.

I decided not to go running with him. Even if Oliver meant nothing by it, I was too far gone to spend any more time with him. It would be foolish to blur the lines and allow myself to think that we were more than what we were.

That Sunday I was stretching in the park before the sun had even risen. After only about five minutes of waiting, Oliver appeared.

He looked a bit surprised to see me but thankfully made no comment. Instead, he offered me a small smile.

"Seven kilometers?" he asked.

"Sounds good."

As we began to run together, I erased all the questions and worries from my mind and just focused on the sounds of our breathing and footsteps.

Two weeks passed, and practices continued between matches. We had narrowly won against the Arrows after losing a day of practice but played wonderfully against the Chudley Cannons, whom we defeated by a margin of over two hundred points; of course, as Bryce was kind enough to point out, beating the Cannons was hardly something to brag about.

With the sudden flurry of matches and practices, time passed with a fury. Fletcher began implementing so many new plays that I did not have time to fret about my pathetic crush or that last Sunday Oliver had brought a thermos of hot chocolate for us both to share for after our run. The November air was brutal, and I spent my days shivering in the air. Nora had given me three rounds of Pepperup Potion, and that had helped some, even if my throat burned like hell afterwards.

About a week before our third match, I finally had a Saturday off to go visit my family. My brothers and I showed up to my dad's flat for dinner. I had forgotten all about the photoshoot until after I had completed my second helping of chocolate pudding when Collin pulled something out of his bag and slammed it onto the table with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Quite flummoxed, I looked around to see that Ayden and Brendan were sporting similar expressions; only Dad, who seemed just as dumbfounded as I felt, appeared unaware of what was happening.

"All right, what's going on? S'not another one of them Howler farts, is it? Cause last time was foul, and you got to remember that your sister needs respect," Dad said gruffly as he eyed my older brothers before frowning down at the leafy greens still sitting on his plate.

"Oh, don't worry, Dad," Collin replied with an amused snort. "Hayley will love this."

"Almost as if she's posed for it," added Brendan.

Ayden burped up some of his ale before adding, "Picture perfect."

The three buffoons started snickering.

I folded my arms over my chest in agitation. I knew whatever they had on me was quite good or they would not seem so pleased. "Out with it."

Collin winked at Brendan and Ayden and then held up a magazine for us all to see.

Dad spilled his mug over the kitchen table, but I paid no attention as Ayden, still sniggering, cleared up the mess with his wand.

In horror, I gazed up to see my own face staring back at me underneath the headline: _Newcomer Hayley McCoy Chases Her Way Into Our Hearts – Which Broomstick Tells All_.

"Why didn't you tell us you were on magazine covers now, eh, Hayles?" Collin asked as he waved the magazine in his hands.

"Didn't you hear, Coll?" goaded Ayden. "She's the latest sex symbol."

"What?" bellowed Dad.

"Wonder if they would like that picture of her when she had spattergroit," mused Brendan, ignoring Dad's outrage.

Moved beyond snickering, my three brothers broke out into raucous guffaws.

I threw my hands over my face in mortification as I willed myself to disappear from my seat at the kitchen table.

"Come off it, you three," Dad scolded loudly. "Hand me that magazine, Collin."

Zealously, Collin tossed it over and Dad began to peruse it.

Brendan and Ayden were animatedly chatting about when they had first seen it.

"Helena bought it when she was out shopping with the kids. Very nearly pissed myself – "

"I was at work when I saw a few blokes reading it. Nearly choked on the Cockroach Cluster I was eating."

"You still like those nasty sweets?"

"It's better than that chickpea shit you eat."

"How many times do I have to tell you that hummus –"

I tuned out their squabbling because Dad had placed the magazine in front of me and then sighed loudly, his belly expanding largely.

"Well, Hayles, as much as I don't like the idea of strange blokes seeing your face anytime they want—" he paused to send dark looks at the boys, who had started laughing again, "—I see no reason to pay mind to somthin' out of our control. 'Sides, you should be proud. You did a hell of a good job at that last match. 'Course, it was the Cannons..."

The pride in his voice did little to alleviate the sinking feeling in my stomach. Gnawing my lip, I peered down at the _Which Broomstick _in trepidation. They had chosen a shot of just me with a Quaffle in my hands. Behind me, I could see the familiar sight of the grassy pitch of our stadium.

Though it was rather awful to see my own face in print, I was a bit relieved to see that at least I did not look stupid or sycophantic like those bints on the cover of _Witch Weekly_. I actually looked like I was trying to escape the cover. For a few moments, I watched my portrait throw the Quaffle up and down before squaring my shoulders and ignoring the gleefully anxious faces of my brothers.

"That's not the only one," Brendan told me. "Keep going. Pages fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…"

"Nineteen and twenty-two," finished Ayden joyously.

My face heating up, I began to flick through the glossy pages furiously. Sure enough, there were pictures of my face everywhere. It appeared as though _Which Broomstick _had formed the whole article around me. I was there with Connor and Jack, Bridget and Des, and even a stray one with Bryce that they must have taken when neither of us was looking.

However, my eyes found the photograph of Oliver and me, and I froze. We actually looked quite nice together. We were both laughing as we threw the Quaffle up in the air. For a brief moment, I closed my eyes as I remembered the way it felt to have him so close behind me. Then, I stopped the indulgence and slammed the magazine closed.

"So?" I said with forced indifference as I relaxed back in my chair haughtily. "It's just a bunch of publicity rubbish. Part of the job. I don't see any of you playing Quidditch professionally."

Dad winked at me, but my brothers did not seem to take my comeback nearly as well.

Brendan, who was sitting on my left, snatched up the magazine and flipped through its pages. "'Miss McCoy, tell us about what it's been like on Puddlemere so far. You're working with some of the most famous and most desired male athletes in all of Britain,'" he read cheerfully as he looked up at me delightedly.

For the second time that night, I froze. A second later, I had launched myself across the table, sending an empty bowl that contained mashed potatoes before Ayden got to them to the floor.

Collin gripped my failing arms, which were trying to yank the magazine from Brendan's grasp.

"Hayley! Collin!" Dad said.

Defeatedly, I sat back in my seat. "Dad, don't let him read it."

"Oh, but I want to hear what they saw about you!"

Brendan smirked and then straightened out the magazine while clearing his throat. "Right. So the question was how Puddlemere's been faring so far. And what did our darling sister reply with?"

I racked my brain as I tried to remember the interview. Everything had happened so fast from the pictures to standing so close to Oliver to seeing him with Bridget. While none of the answers came to me, a heavy sense of foreboding convinced me that it had been nothing I would ever want anyone hearing – let alone public to anyone with five knuts and a healthy sense of humor.

Brendan, who had paused to build up the anticipation, cleared his throat again before reading in a high-pitched voice that sounded nothing like my own, "Well, it's been really great, I reckon. Quidditch is fun. And the blokes are just kind of here, you know? They're sweaty. It's gross. I'm sweaty and gross too."

"Oh, sodding hell," I whimpered.

"Hayley!"

But I was too upset to pay much mind to Dad's scolding.

"And look at this one!" added Ayden as he read over Brendan's shoulder. "'When did you first start playing Quidditch?' And you said, 'Well, it's very big in my family. I think I first started flying when I was four. I wasn't very good. My big brother Brendan used to call me the Amazing Flailing Hayley.'

"I must say, Hayles, I enjoyed the namedrop. This made me a bit nostalgic, but I can't believe you let slip that you used to call it a 'waffle' instead of a Quaffle"

While Brendan amused himself with snickering, Ayden had taken back possession of the magazine. "Oh, and here! You say, "Well, yes, I suppose there is some allure to professional Quidditch players, but not really on me. My roommate Nora says that I would snog a broomstick if I could."

Dad, who was fighting back a laugh, sobered up when he saw my expression. "Now, boys, let's not torment your sister. It's obvious she's had enough mickey taken out of her as it is."

"Oh, but Dad!" Collin whined. "We didn't even get to the part when she says her bum always hurts after practice and the only thing that helps is—"

"COLLIN!"

After about an hour more, I left Dad's flat. Exhausted and harried, I slumped into our tiny sitting room, where Nora was snoozing on the couch. For whatever reason, I found her snoring, which sounded like a dying hippogriff's whinny, oddly soothing. I collapsed onto the couch beside her.

The movement of our couch, a lumpy, patched mess that we had saved from the bin, caused Nora to stir.

"Hayles?" she asked groggily. "Is that you?"

"Yeah," I sighed. "How was work?"

"Long. They had me dressing bandages most of the day. I did treat a bloke who had just been bitten by a vampire."

"Are you okay?" I hissed worriedly.

"Fine, fine," she replied with a yawn as she tossed a bit on the couch and pulled her blanket up to her neck. "I didn't let him near any of my pulse points"

"That's good."

"I saw your picture on a magazine cover," she mumbled into a pillow.

"Mmm."

"You sounded really mental in your interview."

"I know. Goodnight, Nora," I whispered as I rested my head on the other side of the couch.

"You did look really cozy with Oliver in that one picture, though."

I turned to look at her, but she was already asleep. With a sigh, I closed my eyes, consoling myself with the knowledge that the next morning I would be waking up early to go running with Oliver.

The thought alone comforted me, along with the hope that I would never have to deal with the press again.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Hey folks! Thanks for reading! Reviews are also very muchappreciated. Hint hint. We'd love to hear everything from yourthoughts on this chapter, to your favorite parts or quotes of thischapter/whole story so far, to your predictions on how this story isgoing to pan out, to what you thought of HP7p2. And also, in the spirit of team photoshoots, we'll be posting a picture made by Molly of the whole team on Molly's Twitter (mollyraesly), so check it out! Thanks again for beingawesome!_

_~ Danica and Molly_


	6. Press

_**SAAS INSTANT REPLAY:**_

_"You did look really cozy with Oliver in that one picture, though."_

_I turned to look at her, but she was already asleep. With a sigh, I closed my eyes, consoling myself with the knowledge that the next morning I would be waking up early to go running with Oliver._

_The thought alone comforted me, along with the hope that I would never have to deal with the press again._

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><p><strong>Chapter Six<strong>

**Press**

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><p>The flashes were beginning to hurt my eyes. I squirmed in my chair and reached forward to take another sip of my water, ignoring the chunky milkshake congealing bedside it. Another flash went off, and I idly imagined that photograph once it was developed. I was sure that that <em>The Daily Prophet <em>would be thrilled to have documented me drinking water.

Beside me, Jack sighed blearily. There was a nasty cut on his forehead that was bleeding again, the red liquid beginning to trickle down his nose. Two seats down, Des was jiggling her foot anxiously.

I could feel the long table vibrating from where I was seated.

"—and since we put up a strong front defensively, I'd say we were able to withstand the offensive advantage Bulgaria displayed," finished Oliver curtly. His voice was slow and calculated, as though he was making a large effort to word everything precisely. Nevertheless, he still had a goofy smile attached to his lips that had not left since we were declared the winners.

He looked more like the Oliver who last Sunday during the adrenaline rush following our run had told me the story of how his parents swore his first word was "Pimmich" and how he was certain he had been trying to say "Quidditch."

Oliver had not been nearly as neurotic before this match and had even been able to utter a few words as pep talk, but it was clear that he was very relieved that we had won again.

Before me, I sound the dozen or so reporters nod as their quills scratched out what he had said about the end of our second match against Bulgaria.

The press conference, which Cooke had forced the team to participate in, was taking far too long. After my previous encounter with the media, I had no desire to be quoted ever again. Moreover, my Quidditch robes were still wet and plastered to my skin; it had started sleeting during the match, which had lasted for over seven hours.

More than anything, I wanted to take a shower, change, and rest; everything ached. One of the Bulgarian Chasers had rammed into me halfway through the match, and I think he had bruised some of my ribs. Unfortunately, it was just another addendum on my long list of injuries. Playing a match every week, combined with practices, left me constantly bruised. I was fairly certain that my body was more purple than white.

Dad now took to calling me his "bruised peach." I had told him many times that I had not found this funny; he had not stopped.

Of course, my battle scars were not for naught. Excluding tonight's match, we had played four more matches after the initial one with the Falcons and had won two of them, making our record 4-2. I was still bitter about our loss to the Montrose Magpies. Dad had been rather conflicted when we had lost to the Kenmare Kestrals; he loved the Irish too much to ever really mourn their victory.

It was all very exciting. Now that we had defeated Bulgaria, we had the second best record in the League. Immediately before the press conference had begun, Jack and Connor had been discussing our prospects animatedly, but had been silenced by Wood, who probably would not stop strategizing until we made it all the way to the Euro Cup in August.

While it was thrilling to think about playing in a Euro Cup, a prodigious event that only occurred every three years and that I had been fantasizing about for the past twenty years, tonight, I could do with a good night sleep to prepare for tomorrow morning's early session with Fletcher when he would likely deconstruct the whole game and then bark out a speech about next week's competition: the Appleby Arrows.

Much to my chagrin, however, as soon as everyone had swallowed a round of Pepperup Potion and the medi-wizards had patched up any serious injuries, Cooke had forced us into yet another one of the stadium's hidden rooms. This one was fairly simple, just a long table and sitting room in front of it for the reporting chimaeras.

I stopped eyeing a witch with blonde, curly hair, whose quill was scribbling so quickly that fuchsia ink was splattering over her nose, and listened to what Bridget was saying.

"—of course it was quite a blow," she said a bit coolly before taking a breath and smiling diplomatically. "It's the job of the Seeker to catch the Snitch."

"Yes, but what happened with Krum?" a man with a large mustache pressed, never looking up from his notepad, his whiskers likely smearing the ink.

Bridget's smile faded slightly, but it was nothing compared to Oliver's wince. Personally, it had been very difficult to watch Bridget fumble for the Snitch. She had been so close, having had a huge head start on her dive, but then she had slipped up, and Krum had snatched up the Snitch.

"He got there first."

"What about conditions? Seems like you were about to slide off your broom!"

"My Captain, here, would hex me if I blamed my blunder on the weather! Don't you know that Oliver expects us to play our best even if the world was on fire? Mind you, right now, I'd fancy that more than this awful cold."

There were quite a few chuckles from the reporters, which muffled the sound of Bryce's derisive snort.

Listening intently, I heard him mutter something to Des that seemed to be disparaging about Oliver's character.

Bridget had continued speaking to her audience, which seemed to be quite taken with her effortless charisma. A few of the younger blokes had even stopped writing. "Luckily, our Chasers had scored enough goals that we were still able to scrape a win."

"Nice of them to mention us," Connor whispered to me as he smiled, revealing a missing tooth in the front.

"Much like that Quidditch World Cup a few years back," added Oliver ,coming to Bridget's defense. "Krum's a hell of a player, but Quidditch is not all about Seeking."

A few more cameras flashed as the quills flurried again.

"Yes, well, we at Puddlemere do make a point of creating a very well-rounded atmosphere," offered Cooke with a beaming smile as he patted Fletcher on the back. "Could not ask for a finer group of athletes or coaches, I declare."

"Fletcher! What do you have to say about the match's outcome?"

Fletcher, who looked like he had just swallowed a whole vat of polyjuice potion, fidgeted with his cap, which was looking limp and damp. "A win's a win."

Because the room was so quiet, there was no hiding Bryce's snickering this time.

"Nice beating tonight!" commented someone from the eclectic mass of reporters.

"That's what your mum said," sniggered Bryce under his breath with a wolfish smirk.

Des shot him a very frightening look that made her seem more like a basilisk than a woman.

Bryce sobered up immediately, though his dimples were still present as he laughed breezily. "Well, you know, give a bloke a bat, and he'll do wonders."

The reporters twittered humorously, and Bryce rolled his eyes as he stretched out in his chair and whispered something to Jack, who smiled weakly.

Frankly, I thought Bryce's comment was a load of trite waffle. He and Des had been in spectacular form tonight. Post-game stats showed that they had stopped Bulgaria from scoring no less than twenty-seven times during the match. They had finally released the Bludger Sucker, a new move Oliver had devised and Des was forced to rename after what Bryce had been calling it. Dmitri Volstov, one of the Bulgarian Chasers, had to be taken out of the match after he ducked Bryce's Bludger, only to be hammered by one sent by Des from behind.

Personally, I felt very obliged to the two of them because they both came zooming to my defense when a Bludger was hit straight at my head, preventing me from becoming quite dead.

"Miss Faust! Anything to add? How about that perfectly executed Bludger Backbeat maneuver?"

"No comment," Des said icily before resuming her surly silence. There were bits of dried blood in her hair, and she was cradling her right shoulder, which had been dislocated earlier that week at practice.

Next, the rounded on Bill Murphy, our Defensive Coordinator, to give them the details that neither Bryce nor Des would dish. Bill answered in his low voice, keeping an eye fixed on Fletcher the whole time.

"Let Billiam deal with it," Des grumbled. "This is rubbish."

The reporters scratched out Bill's answer in a flustered haste until a tiny little warlock whose beard came down his knees actually stood up on his chair so that he could ask his question.

"Miss McCoy!" he squeaked.

I jolted in my chair, both from hearing my own name and seeing him topple onto the witch sitting beside him from the enthusiasm with which he had shouted. Once he righted himself, he cleared his throat and began again. "You scored over twenty goals today, many using reverse throws! What has been your strategy going into these games?"

I downed some water before answering, both because my throat suddenly felt very dry and it gave me a few moments to formulate a coherent thought. I could not help but to feel a bit of pride when I thought about the carefully executed plays we had performed during the match. Fletcher had us running all sorts of new drills that had never been seen before in addition to some of the trickiest maneuvers that have ever been attempted on a pitch. I had even managed to pass the Quaffle underneath the seat of my broom for the first time today when that troll Imelda Stratovski kept trying to intercept my throws.

My pride quickly faded as I looked out to see the reporters watching me with rapt attention, quills posed. "Uhh, well, you go into wanting to win, don't you?" I said, the words sounding much more like I was asking a question than I had intended. "And it's not just me playing. Jack's a natural at the Parkin's Pincer, and Connor could outsmart anyone with his Porskoff Ploy."

Connor lifted a hand to wave graciously at some shouted praise, and Jack, whose ears had turned bright red, sent me a bashful smile.

They started hounding Oliver again for predictions on the future of the team; Oliver spoke in convoluted circles that revealed nothing but sounded very impressive, always employing his most vigilant defense strategy against them.

I very nearly fell asleep when Fletcher was drilled again for more thoughts on the upcoming matches, which made him increasingly irate. Eventually, Tony interrupted and fed them a few lines that he had probably read in _Trance and the Art of Broomstick Maintenance_.

"You really just need to feel the energy of the match, you know?"

Finally, the last of the flashing ended, and we were free to leave.

As we were walking towards the girls' locker room, Des was talking to me as best as she could with her fat lip when something Bridget said quieted us.

"Wait—we're not going out tonight?"

Bridget had scheduled for us to do something after every match. She, much like her father, felt it was important to let off steam and relish in our victories—or console ourselves after losses. Personally, I found the partying almost as exhausting as the matches.

"Well, I think we could all use a bit of rest, Bridge," said Oliver carefully. "Get ready for next week. You know, the Arrows –"

Bridget did not seem to hear him because her eyes had welled up with tears. "I'm so sorry, everyone! I don't know what happened before. My broom just jerked, and then Krum was there before I could figure out what happened! I know I said I slipped, but I think I accidentally might have hit the brake. You must be so angry with me!"

Everyone halted and looked around uncomfortably, especially Oliver, who looked positively frozen at the sight of tears.

"I guess I understand that you don't want to celebrate. We did almost lose. It's all my fault."

She sounded so genuinely distraught that I almost did not blame Connor when he readily piped up and said that we would go out together for a bit. Everyone else seemed to agree with me because the team silently limped off to the locker rooms to get ready as Bridget gave us all a watery smile.

I was feeling much better after my long-overdue shower until I opened my gym bag and saw its contents. I had been running late this morning - at least, late for being a few hours early – so Nora kindly offered to pack me some clothes for after the match while I scoffed down a few results of a new pumpkin cranberry nut muffin recipe she was trying.

Eyeing the short, plaid green and navy blue skirt and tight matching sweater, I now realized why she had seemed so eager to help me out. Nora was convinced that Oliver would come around if I just showed a little leg.

I could hear her voice in my head. _Honestly, Dragotsennaya, why do you bother running so much if you insist on wearing bulky Quidditch gear? All that exercise must get you something!_

Not wanting to put my sweaty warm-up clothes back on, I sighed heavily and then pulled on the outfit Nora had chosen for me. Thankfully, she had included thick, black tights, which I quite appreciated, given the temperature. Regrettably, however, she had only given me heels.

When I emerged from changing, I saw Des wrapping up her battered fingers and Bridge fastening the buttons on her coat.

She beamed when she saw me. "Aw, Hayley, you look so pretty! I love your outfit!" Behind her, Des eyed me with a taunting smirk.

I muttered at her darkly before buttoning up my own coat and following the other two girls as we made our way towards the boys' locker room.

"Oh, er, thanks, Bridge. My roommate picked it out for me."

"Nora did that?" Des hissed in my ear. I had introduced her to Nora this past week. She came for dinner—pizza and beer—and we nursed our bruises. "For a bird who wears pearls, that's cold."

"Well, she has a great eye for fashion. I'd love to meet her."

"Oh, er, yeah, maybe," I replied noncommittally before rapidly changing subjects as I opened the door to the boys' locker room. "So where are we going?"

"Well, I know everyone must be exhausted, so I figure it'd probably be best not to go to a club. Hmm…."

Fortuitously, Bridget had turned her head in deliberation and missed the grateful look Connor gave to the heavens.

"We could go to that bar on Baker Street," offered Bryce.

"No, too dodgy for this late at night. Get suspicious characters there."

"What about the one on Chancery Lane? They serve wonderful fish and chips."

"Ministry finally caught onto the illegal dealings and snuffed it."

"Oh, you mean because of those – _scarlet women_ – and the love potions they were giving out?"

"Scarlet women?" echoed Bryce with a snigger. "Really, Jack?"

"Oh, shut it," replied Jack, going slightly scarlet himself. He turned to me and then brightened happily. "Say, Hayley, your dad owns a pub, right? Why don't we go there?"

"Oh, um," I stuttered as I floundered for what to say. Truthfully, it was no accident that we had not winded up at McCoy's before. As much as I loved my father, I did not want to give him full access to my teammates, especially when there was alcohol involved.

"It'd be so lovely to see the place!" cooed Bridget. "You make it sound so wonderful, Hayley."

"Er—"

"Sounds good to me!" Bryce interrupted before I could say anything else. "Reckon he'll give us free drinks, Hayle?"

"Are you sure it's okay?" asked Oliver, appearing from behind a row of lockers and looking very much as though he had just come out of the shower.

"Uh—sure."

Dad, of course, was exorbitantly thrilled to have us there, to say the least. To his credit, though, he kept his longwinded when-Hayley-was-a-lass stories to a minimum. Bryce and Connor were quick to take full advantage of his offer for drinks on the house while Jack engaged my father in what seemed like a very polite conversation.

It was all very bizarre to see my teammates amidst the dark green wallpaper and mahogany furniture. Connor admired the beer mugs, which my grandfather had picked out. Bridget pointed out to Oliver the Quidditch players she knew personally from the vast collection of framed photographs Dad had mounted to the walls.

A few lagging customers pestered Oliver and Bridget for autographs, but Dad kicked them out when they did not know who I was, apart from his daughter.

"If they don't know your stats, Hayles, they can go back to their wives, the way men should."

The biggest surprise of the very late evening, however, was not my dad's astonishment at me arriving with the rest of my world-famous Quidditch team, but Des and Bryce acknowledging that they were officially an item.

Midway through his second pint, Bryce called for everyone's attention, and then, in lieu of making the expected sloppy speech, leaned over to kiss Des sloppily on the lips.

Everyone froze as we waited for her to explode; however, she pulled back with a fierce amount of dignity and announced, "Yes. We're dating. Whatever. Stop staring."

It had been a very terse speech, but I do not think that I imagined the very tender way in which she placed her bruised hand into Bryce's equally bloody one when she thought everyone had looked away.

Bryce, surely, had not seemed to be able to stop grinning from that point on. In fact, once Des excused herself to go talk to Connor, Bryce sauntered over to where I was standing behind the bar.

"Dunno what'd I'd do without you, Hayley," he slurred at me.

"Huh?"

"With Des," he qualified. "She's such a pain in the ass. I think it's what I love most about 'er."

"Oh, er, that's nice?"

"But, you, Hayley," he continued as he took another mighty gulp from his mug, "you did sompin' to 'er. What'd ya do?"

I resisted the urge not to laugh at his sloppy drunkenness as I threw a towel over my shoulder. Dad had insisted that he would make all the drinks, but I wanted to help. Besides, seeing some pissed bloke reminded me of all the wonderful times I had in McCoy's before Puddlemere happened. I had quite an affection for drunk people. "Haven't the foggiest."

"She's diffr'nt now. She never used to let me in. Now, though, well you saw what happened. Been trying to get her to do that for years, and zam!" he emphasized his point by smacking his fist down onto the bar top. "Blimey, you're like Drooble's Best Blowing Gum."

Assuming this was meant to be a compliment, I thanked Bryce and then asked him if he wanted another drink.

"D'ya got those little cherries? I'd fancy some of those."

Sniggering to myself, I fished through a cabinet and found a small vial, exactly where I had left it last, beside my old black and white spiral notebook. I poured a bit of Sobering Solution into a martini glass and then garnished it with a few cherries.

"Oho!" Bryce squealed happily.

My smile faded a bit when I saw that my dad was still talking Jack's ear off. Quickly, I began to stride towards them, running my hands over my skirt, as though that would somehow augment its length.

Bryce spun around on his stool and faced me. "You know, Hayley, you've got nice stems."

"Why don't you take a sip of your drink," I recommended as I continued walking, pausing to pick up a set of napkins off the floor.

However, halfway there, I spotted Oliver sitting alone at one side of the bar. Glancing around, I saw Connor conversing with Bridget. Bryce had left the bar; he and Des were now conspicuously absent.

I shot another look over my shoulder at Dad and Jack as my feet brought me over to Oliver, who was nursing a glass of firewhiskey he must have poured himself.

Too focused on his drink, he did not notice me until I cleared my throat. His eyes traveled up my body until they found my own. "Nice kilt, 24."

"Yeah, my roommate Nora picked out my clothes," I mumbled as I sat down on the chair beside him and crossed my legs.

"Well, at least we know something that will be sure to distract the Arrows next week," he said wryly before draining his glass. He mumbled something that I could not hear.

"Is Quidditch all you ever think about, Oliver?" I teased with a laugh.

He gripped his glass tightly. "Don't you start, too."

"No! It's all right," I backpedaled quickly. "I don't mind, really. I mean, what else is there?"

"Don't let anyone else hear you say that," he said before taking a long swig of his drink. "Apparently, it's not normal to make Quidditch anything more than a game."

"Normal," I sneered. "Don't know the meaning of the word."

Oliver laughed, and I grinned back as I played with the chain of my necklace.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing. "I think I've seen you fiddling with that before."

"Oh," I said as I pulled back my hair. "It's, uh, well, it's a necklace."

Oliver found my eyes, as though silently asking my permission, and then reached over to touch the charm at resting along my collar bone. "Three hoops?"

"Goal posts," I replied. "My mum gave it to me for my eighth birthday. She was very supportive of my passion for Quidditch. She was a Muggle, but she loved sports." I smiled sadly. "I've never taken it off. It's been twelve years. That sounds silly, doesn't it?"

"No!" he assured me quickly. "No," he repeated softly. "I'm sorry about, you know."

"It's okay," I replied back automatically before frowning. "I mean, it's not, but—"

"You've learned to cope with it?" he finished for me.

"Yeah."

"Hayley," he said as he turned towards me. "I –"

But I never found out what Oliver was about to say because Bridget suddenly appeared behind us, and Oliver banged his glass against the edge of the bar, effectively shattering it.

"Shit," he cursed. "Damn, Bridge!"

"Sorry, Ollie! I thought you saw me!"

"No, Hayley, I'll take care of that!"

I rose up from off the floor, where I was picking up the pieces of broken class as Oliver pulled his wand out of his robes.

"_Reparo_!"

The glass wobbled a bit but then settled back on the ground.

"Never mind, Oliver, I've got it," said Bridget brightly as she whipped out her wand. "_Reparo_."

Immediately, the glass shards melded back into their original form. Bridget grinned and then put away her wand. "You'll have to forgive him, Hayley," she told me cheerfully. "Oliver's a bit hapless. Didn't you say you only got about three O.W.L.s, love?"

Oliver did not say anything, and I did not dare look up at either him nor Bridget.

"Thank Merlin for Quidditch, eh, Hayley?" Bridget continued, showcasing once again her unparalleled ability to say something completely offensive with the very best of intentions. She yawned widely, her bright teeth shining even in the dim lighting of the pub. "Oh, Oliver, love, how many times have I told you not to wear your shirts like that? You simply must roll up the sleeves, it'll look much more attractive."

Bridget then proceeded to roll up his sleeves past his forearms. "Doesn't this look better, Hayley?"

"Oh, um, yes, I mean—not that—"

"Bridge, can you stop? Look, I'm really exhausted, and Fletcher—"

"Oh, all right. I think it probably is best to head home soon. Oliver, can we go to my flat? I forgot to pack an overnight bag."

I caught Oliver's eye for a brief moment before he turned his attention down to his girlfriend. "Oh, uh, sure, love."

Bridget took my vacated stool, and I suddenly felt very out of place as Bridget started chatting animatedly at Oliver.

The image of them was too much for me to stomach. It had been far too easy to enjoy being with Oliver – the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the smell of pine, the accent in which he said my name. Inside the pub, I was always more at ease than I was anywhere else; in this place, I was more susceptible to letting myself dwell on the dream of being with Oliver and forgetting the reality.

Bridget's presence seemed like a violation of nature; it was as though she was a virus I could not expel. For an instant, I hated her. I wanted to slam her beautiful teeth into the bar.

While the fantasy gave me a second of satisfaction, as soon as it faded, I felt sickened by myself. This was so unlike me. I hated cheaters. Once, Ayden had a girlfriend who cheated on him; I sent her to the Hospital Wing for over a month. She always flinched when she saw bubotuber pus afterwards.

Bridget leaned over the bar to grab a napkin that was sticking out from underneath the counter, and I knew I had to get out of here. I simply could no longer watch her infiltrate something else in my life.

I scuttled over to where Dad was sitting in a dark green booth, still rambling on to Jack, who was probably too polite to excuse himself after the first thirty minutes.

"Oh, Hayles! We were just talkin' 'bout yer!" Dad told me as he set down his mighty glass of ale.

"I bet," I muttered under my breath as I sent Jack an apologetic glance.

He smiled good naturedly at me. "You'll have to tell me more about getting fitted for dress robes for the first time."

I groaned as I recalled that dreadful day. "Madam Malkin deserved what she got," I said defensively. "She never should have confused me for a lad, and it's not like she didn't stick me with pins for revenge."

Dad started positively howling with laughter as Jack chuckled deeply; this only served to irritate me more.

"I think I'm sick," I blurted out.

Dad straightened up immediately. "Whassamatter? Do I need to get Healer Bacarri?"

"No," I said quickly. "It's not that bad. I think I just need some rest."

Jack stood up, hands ready, as though he was preparing me to faint at any moment. "Do you want to sit down?" he asked, his face contorted in almost as much concern as Dad's was sporting.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Oliver brush his lips over Bridget's temple. I shook my head. "I think I'm just going to go home."

"Are you sure, Hayles? Maybe I should call one of your brothers."

"No, it's fine. Nora's there. I'm just going to go home. I can come by tomorrow to help clean up."

Dad shook his head. "No, yer don't. You relax, Hayles. It ain't no thing I can't handle."

"I can help!" volunteered Jack earnestly.

"See? We don't need yeh. Now get on goin'. Want me to get you home?"

I shook my head. Their concern for my wellbeing was wonderful, but it was almost as unwanted as the couple sitting at the bar. "I'm just going to floo home from your fireplace upstairs. Is that okay?"

Dad nodded as he started to stand up.

"Don't bother," I told him. I said my goodbyes to both of them and then sprinted out of the room.

On the steps up to my dad's flat, I found where Des and Bryce had escaped to. They were otherwise occupied and did not notice me as I squeezed past them.

When I got home, I gave the clock a wary glance and saw that it was far too close to the next morning's practice for my liking.

Surprisingly, Nora was awake and nibbling on what looked like a chocolate brick.

"Hey," I greeted her feebly as I plopped down to join her at the kitchen table.

"You look like you need this," Nora said as she handed me over the chocolate.

I took a large bite and then passed it back over to her. "Fhanks," I said before swallowing. "Whatcha still doing up?"

Nora sighed tiredly, and I noticed that the dark circles under her eyes could rival my own. Now that I realized it, it had been three days since I had last seen her conscious.

"Just got home a little while ago. I had the six to three shift; I've got to get as many hours in as I can before I take my final examination. So they've got me doing weird shifts at St. Mungo's lately, not that you'd notice because I swear you're at practice more hours than there are in the day."

I sat back guiltily. Nora and I had barely had a chance to talk lately. I suddenly appreciated how much I had missed her lately, and I scooted my chair closer to hers. "I'm sorry," I said, feeling like I should apologize to at least someone lately for my behavior.

Nora took a large bite of chocolate. "I don't blame you," she said. "All I do is sleep lately anyway."

I yawned widely. "God, that sounds good."

She nodded.

I took a bite of chocolate from her. Somehow, despite all her lethargy, Nora was still wearing her pearl earrings, smelling of honey, and sitting very straight in her chair. Yet, there seemed to be something off about her expression. "What's wrong?

She sniffed offhandedly, as though she was about to drop the topic, when suddenly her shoulders slumped. "I think there's something wrong with Carter and me."

"What? No! You guys are perfect."

But despite my protests, Nora only appeared more distraught. "That's what I thought," she said. "But lately, he's been acting different. I know I've been at the hospital so much lately, but I haven't seen him in nearly a week. And the last time I saw him, he just brushed me off when I invited him to stay over." She bit into the chocolate again as her expression turned more forlorn. "They always say the bloke is hiding something when he doesn't want sex anymore."

"Did he say why?"

She shook her head. "He's been so secretive lately. He went to Diagon Alley last week and came up with some pathetic excuse that he had to visit his brother. But Landon wrote me and said he was on business in Hogsmeade that day!"

"I'm sure it was just a mistake."

"It wasn't. He's going to chuck me. I know it."

I smiled sadly as I pictured the diamond ring I had hidden in my locker at the pitch, the only place Carter could think of where Nora would not find it. I reached for her and pulled her into a hug. "Carter loves you," I told her.

She scoffed.

"Oh, stop being stupid and agree with me," I ordered.

Nora laughed and brushed away a stray tear. "You really need to find a boyfriend, Hayley."

"Yeah, cause it makes you so happy," I joked.

We stayed silent for a bit as we continued to lean on each other and pass the bar of dark chocolate back and forth. After a good length of time, when I had reached such a peak of exhaustion that I was nearly asleep in my straightbacked chair, the doorbell rang.

I groaned as Nora quickly rose to her feet. "Maybe it's Carter," she wondered hopefully as she disappeared to go answer the door.

I contemplated the benefits and disadvantages of exerting the energy to get up and actually go to bed for over a minute until Nora came back.

"There's someone here for you."

From the excited expression on her face, I had been expecting her to announce that Carter had forgoed his plans and proposed just now. To make her seem so happy, though, it must mean…

Curiosity stirred within me as I allowed myself to hope that Oliver was here. Perhaps he had come to finish our conversation or to tell me that he had broken it off with Bridget. He had to get here as soon as possible so that we would not waste a single second of our time together.

With each thought of him, not even bothering to care how pathetic I sounded to my own brain, I moved faster.

Only, it was not Oliver standing in our doorway. It was Jack.

He smiled brightly when he saw me. "Hello, Hayley!" he greeted me politely. "I'm terribly sorry about how late it is. Your dad wanted to make sure that you got this soup. He said he always makes it for you when you're sick."

I nodded. "It was my mother's recipe."

Jack's smile dimmed, as though he wanted to say something else. "Well, I offered to bring it over for him. He seemed a bit knackered after we got done cleaning."

I chewed my lip guiltily. "About that, Jack, I'm really sorry."

He waved a hand dismissively. "No trouble at all. You're sick!"

"Yeah."

Jack handed me the soup. "Well, I hope you feel better, though, I must say, you look perfect – you know, healthy, to me. That's a really nice skirt," he added quickly.

I blushed. "You'll have to thank Nora. She's the redhead eavesdropping over there."

"Hi!" Nora greeted him as she stuck her head out.

"Pleasure," Jack replied with a small smile in her direction. "Well, Hayley, I don't want to intrude on you much longer. You need your rest. Fletch is bound to have our hides tomorrow for staying out as late as we did." He paused as he reached over to brush back a bit of my hair. "Hayley, do you, I mean, would you like to go out for coffee after practice tomorrow?"

I tried very hard to ignore the squeak that came from Nora's hiding space. Jack's blue eyes were eager and friendly. The offer found me completely unprepared, and I floundered for a response, not even quite sure how I wanted to answer him. "Oh, um, I'm not sure if then is the best time – I mean –"

"Of course!" he rebounded quickly before I could get the words out. "How silly of me! You're sick. You need your rest. It's not a big ordeal—I mean, it's just coffee. Nothing serious about coffee, right? Yes, maybe some other time." His ears were a fierce red shade. "Well, good night, Hayley. I hope you feel better. Nice to meet you, Nora!"

"You too!"

Obviously flustered, Jack turned hurriedly to leave, but I called his name out.

He turned to face me hopefully.

"Thanks for the soup, Jack. That was really very kind of you. See you tomorrow?"

"Bright and early. Sleep well, Hayley."

I could still see his smile in my mind even after he Disapparated.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_Hey there, readers! Thanks for getting us to our goal of 100 reviews (shoutout to those of you who follow Molly on twitter)! You guys are the best! And thanks for coming back and reading this chapter. We'd love it if you kept adding to the review count. I love hearing favorite parts. Molly loves hearing about Jane Austen. She wants me to let you know that she is making Victoria Sponge Cake and pumpkin pasties from her HP cookbook for Harry's birthday, Bridget is her favorite character, and she is on an epic quest to find whimsical salt and pepper shakers. Thanks again for reading and reviewing! Till next Friday._

_-Danica_


	7. OffTime

_SAAS INSANT REPLAY_

_Obviously flustered, Jack turned hurriedly to leave, but I called his name out._

_He turned to face me hopefully._

_"Thanks for the soup, Jack. That was really very kind of you. See you tomorrow?"_

_"Bright and early. Sleep well, Hayley."_

_I could still see his smile in my mind even after he Disapparated._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven<strong>

**Off-Time**

* * *

><p>After that late night meeting, I had cowardly done my best to avoid Jack. I darted out quickly after practices and tried my best to make sure we were never alone during training.<p>

Connor obviously knew something was going on. He had spent far too much time with us not to notice how I kept ducking Jack's obvious attempts at talking to me. He did not say anything about it, but I could barely withstand the knowing glint in his eye and the way he constantly seemed on the brink of laughter.

Bryce and Des knew, as well. After much interrogation, Des admitted to having knowledge of Jack's crush on me. She would not say in any certain turns how long it had been going on, but I gathered that it had pretty much been from the start.

"I'm not telling you shit," Des growled, once I had told her my estimations. "Look, H, we're cool, but I don't snitch. Jack's my friend. I ain't gonna tell you anything else that he doesn't want you knowing. Just don't go too hard on him."

Bryce was much more forthcoming. He gave me a lengthy explanation of Jack's love life. Sadly, a lot of it seemed pretty depressing. Apparently, Jack was known for carrying torches. Bryce also told me that when his last girlfriend had broken up with him, Jack had been pretty devastated. "Sat around not eating and staring at shit for fucking months," Bryce described succinctly. "Pussy."

Because Fletcher had us training so fiercely in the frigid early December weather, I was not overly conspicuous in my efforts to flee after practice; everyone was rushing home to head to a warm fireplace and a new pair of socks.

However, it was much more difficult to evade Jack after our last two matches. Due to a rogue Bludger nearly decapitating Bridget before she could get the Snitch, we lost the first one against the Wimbourne Wasps; the only positive thing about the whole ordeal was that there was no celebration and, thus, no reason for me to hide.

After our most recent victory against the Tornadoes, though, I had a much more difficult time. I spent a large amount of time discussing cats with Bridget, but the sacrifice was worth the win.

We had not returned to McCoy's pub since that night. Frankly, I was not hoping to hurry back any time soon. Nevertheless, a few team members had been spotted leaving the place – evidently Bridget had been deemed too drunk even to use Floo powder—and so people kept flooding into the place, hoping that Puddlemere United might stop by again. Dad was completely elated at the boom in business and had enlisted the help of my elder brothers to join him in manning the bar, now that I was so busy.

So, instead of bringing our patronage to McCoy's, we had gone to some random bar Bryce liked. It was grimy and smelled like piss; naturally, Bryce was a frequent client. Jack had almost succeeding in cornering me into a conversation, but I fled to the loo and then disappeared for the night.

I felt horrible about avoiding him. The look of hurt deepening in Jack's eyes with every successive evasion was damn near killing me. I felt like I was betraying Gryffindor by behaving so spinelessly

However, the fact remained that I had no idea what to say to Jack. It would have been much easier if I simply wanted either to reject or accept his offer of coffee. Before that night, I had never really considered Jack for anything beyond friendship. Yet, he was ridiculously kind and boyishly attractive. Part of me wondered what would happen if we did go out on a date.

But as soon as I saw Oliver, Bridget or no Bridget, all thoughts of Jack and his romantic potential were swept away like an old Comet 360.

Upon our defeat of the Tornadoes, I no longer needrf an excuse to dodge Jack. To the immense relief of Puddlemere United's frostbitten fingers and toes, we went on holiday for Christmas.

Quickly, I was much too busy even to dwell on my luckless love situation. As per usual, Nora worked herself into a tizzy trying to bake every cookie in Britain. Our tiny flat was smeared in frosting, covered in sprinkles, and lined with peppermints.

It got so bad that I took to sampling the white powder on Nora's nose every evening to see if it was flour or confectioner's sugar that night; I even made private bets with myself and, pathetically, grew grumpy when I got it wrong.

I nearly had to force her into the shower one evening so that Carter could take her out to dinner. Nora protested heatedly, spouting off in Russian and fretting about the state of her snickerdoodles, but I made sure she put her best pearl earrings on and wore a dress devoid of powder.

I also did my damndest to act surprised when she floated home, blissfully serene, and showed me the diamond ring on her left hand. Her happiness was so intoxicating that I felt as though I really was hearing about the proposal for the very first time, even though I had helped Carter plan it right down to what color tie he should wear: blue, obviously, to match Nora's eyes.

Nevertheless, I was still surprised and, pathetically, a bit misty-eyed when Nora asked me to be her Maid of Honor.

Nora's joy seemed to permeate into everything. When Christmas arrived, I had never seen everyone so jubilant before. Dad and I had scrubbed down the pub until it shined and then hung loads of baubles and lights.

Ayden brought the tree, and we all enjoyed a grand Christmas dinner together with my nieces and nephew running around everywhere with bits of wrapping paper stuck to their tiny heels. Nora and Carter only stayed for a bit before they had to go visit their respective families, but Dad stuffed them so full with food that I doubted they were able to eat much more for the rest of the day.

Times were so happy that I even let Dad indulge and eat a large slab of pot roast.

"Just for today, mind you," I warned him with as much as a threat as I could muster while smiling. "A Christmas treat."

And this year produced the biggest haul yet. I had received various gifts from my teammates, the most notable of which being the large gift basket of beauty products from Bridget and a cuff bracelet made of dragon skin from Des that had "No Fear" embossed into it. Connor gave me an enormous box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Jelly Beans, and Bryce sent me some of the music he always blared in the weight room.

With a guilty conscience, I unwrapped the necklace from Jack before rolling my eyes at the milkshake machine Cooke sent.

Fletcher, as well as my dad, gave me thick books on Quidditch history to add to my collection. My elder brothers thought they were funny and compiled every clipping they could find about me that had been in the press lately.

When I threatened to set fire to their presents, they handed over the real gifts they had chosen for me.

Despite my protests that they should be saving for their wedding, Nora and Carter both chipped in and got me a Quaffle signed by the Dominator along with their explicit promise never to tell any of my teammates, a set of potions that Nora explained would repel frostbite, and a tin full of double chocolate chunk brownies.

The only person who had seemed to forget about me was Oliver. I tried my hardest not to be put out, but I was still a bit disappointed by his neglect when I showed up for our very early morning run on New Year's Eve.

Triple knotting my trainers, I did my best to act normally as he approached me.

"Hey, 24. Have a nice Christmas?"

"Yeah, it was sweet. You?"

"Brilliant. Excited to be on the other side of it, though. I hate going so long without a match."

I nodded and fastened my scarf more firmly around my neck when Oliver pulled something out of his pocket. "Thanks for the new playbook, by the way. It's perfect."

I did my best to hide my grin. To be honest, I had spent quite a bit of time fretting over what exactly I should get Oliver.

"Though," he continued with a light chuckle, "it did make me feel a bit silly. I didn't send this to you because I thought you might think I was copying you, but here you are."

Oliver handed me the object in his hand, and I ran my gloved fingers over the cover of a tattered red book, tied up in white ribbon.

"It's my old playbook from back in Hogwarts. I thought you might like it. Not some of more sophisticated drills, but they work just the same," he added, sounding slightly embarrassed.

"Thank you," I said when I finally found my voice.

Oliver grinned and tucked the book back into his coat pocket for safekeeping. "You ready?"

I nodded. "How many kilometers?"

"Oh, eight sounds like a nice number. I don't want to push you too hard. You've probably gone soft with the holidays. Too much turkey," he added as he prodded my belly with his index finger.

He laughed at my outrage as I started chasing after him.

The new year rolled in with the usual hard liquor shots and Collin's insistence that we go around the table and declare our resolutions.

With a quick glance at me, Dad vowed to try to eat healthier. When it came to my turn, I mumbled something about scoring more goals. Really, though, I was thinking about my situation with Oliver. I had allowed myself to get far too close to him, and I could sense that the slight fancy I took to him upon our first meeting had developed into something far more dangerous.

On the other side of the holidays as spirits were dwindling and my family members were heading back to their daily lives, I grew more and more restless. I hated the listless feeling in my bones and impatiently hoped that training sessions would resume.

Because Nora and Carter were so often busy dealing with wedding plans—they wanted to get married quickly, during the interim after Nora's internship ended and before she began her job as a fully qualified Healer, so that they could go on a honeymoon—I often found myself alone in our flat as they looked at apartments or spoke with caterers. The wedding would have to be a small affair, but it still required a hell of a lot of planning.

I offered to help as much as I could, but they absolutely refused any of my offers of money. They did, however, agree to have the reception at McCoy's.

"It just feels a bit like home, you know?" Nora commented.

I had to agree with her. I had been helping Dad barkeep almost every night to stay occupied and avoid lonely nights on the saggy sofa.

Dad was thrilled to have my help and my company as I easily slipped into the old routine of serving drinks and ignoring the cheeky, drunken comments of overly zealous regulars seeking sanctuary from their wives.

When I had been out of the sky for over a month, my feet began to feel heavy against the ground. I was very excited, then, when an invitation arrived by owl to an anniversary party at Connor's house about a week before practices began once more.

Looking forward to seeing my teammates as much as if they were my own family members, I grabbed my present, a few bottles of finely aged mead, and Apparated to Connor's house on the day of the party.

His house was in the muggle suburbs outside London. There were evergreen hedges overpowering the walkway and roof shingles threatening to clonk partygoers swiftly on the noggin. As I approached, a gaggle of girls, two of whom I recognized as Connor's daughters from photographs, raced through the snow on the ground as they chased after a barking dog.

One of the little girls was waving a fake wand in the air until it turned into a rubber chicken.

I laughed as I recognized the Weasley Wizard Wheezes product.

A kind looking elderly woman with long white air and large rubber galoshes came wheezing after the girls, clutching her knees as they ran behind the house. She heaved for a bit before spotting me and ambling in my direction. "Hello, there, pet!"

"Hello!" I replied. "My name is Hayley. I'm here for the party?"

"Right, yes, of course," she said as she guided me along. "Connor's mentioned you at Sunday dinner, of course. I'm Agatha, his mum."

"It's very nice to meet you," I said as I fumbled with the bottles of mead so that I could shake her hand, which was covered by a knitted mitten.

"Merlin!" she exclaimed while relieving me of the bottles. "Here, I've got them. No! It's fine, love, really. You go out back and enjoy the party. That young Jack Copeland—what a sweet boy and quite the looker too, what I would give to be your age—is going to give us a bit of a light show soon. Thank goodness for concealment charms, eh? Otherwise, the Ministry would have all of our heads!"

I tried to thank her, but she shooed me past a gate and then disappeared into the house. I continued walking and grinned at the Happy 20th Anniversary banner that obviously looked like it had been fingerpainted by Connor's daughters.

The yard was crammed with a dozen or so round tables decorated with cream linen tablecloths and orchids. Despite the frigid temperature, the many party guests were mulling around without coats quite comfortably. The snow that layered the front of the house was conspicuously absent, and I was beginning to feel a bit warm.

A bloke with Connor's eyes but much grayer whisps of hair found me and took my coat.

"Heating charm?" I asked him.

"My wife did it. Have you had a chance to meet Agatha yet?"

I nodded. "Yes."

He nodded and then squinted down at me. "You're not one of my relatives, are you?" he whispered conspiratorially. "Don't mean to be rude; we've just got so many, see? Can't keep track in my old age. Hell, half the time I don't even know who I am."

"No, sir, I'm Hayley McCoy. I play Chaser with Connor."

"Oh, you're that little girl who's been all over the papers! Christ Almighty! McCoy, you say? So then you're Irish?"

I barely had time to nod before he pulled me by my neck into a hug.

"Wonderful!" he wheezed when he finally released me. "Always a pleasure to meet another Irishman. I'm Wesley, Connor's father. How 'bout I show you around? Introduce you to the relatives?"

"That would be great," I croaked while massaging my throat.

His wide grin beamed for a moment before he began to frown as he fingered the gray and white whiskers on his chin. "That is, assuming I remember all their names. Multiply like rabbits, the O'Reilly clan. Must be all the potatoes…"

Despite misgivings, Wesley was able to recall the names of an astonishingly large amount of relatives. Prying me away from any opportunity to latch onto a familiar Puddlemere face – even Fletcher, who was looking slightly fidgety without his usual clipboard, hat, and whistle – I was introduced to a plethora of great aunts, third cousins, and bogey-covered nephews and nieces. Most were harmless, if not very polite, except for cousin Persephone, who turned a deaf ear to my many protests and forced me to feel her very pregnant belly.

My aversion to pregnancy was not the result of a hatred of children; in fact, I fully planned on having kids one day. I adored Ayden's children, Hannah, Kate, and Billy.

However, it freaked me out to see women walking around and functioning with something growing inside of them. Pregnancy was a mystery that I did not want to unravel for a very long time. Besides, I could not play Quidditch with a stomach that big.

Finally, after the names and faces all started to blend into one another, I excused myself from Wesley's side and his many proclamations of, "Yes, she plays Quidditch, a wee little girl like her! But did you know? Irish!" on the pretense of getting a drink.

Once I had untethered myself, I really had no idea where to go, so, feeling a bit stifled anyway from the warmth of the heating charm, I walked over to where the drinks were held and grabbed a bottle of butterbeer.

Drink in hand, I turned to try to find Des when I nose-planted into a very thick torso.

A chuckle sounded, and I began to murmur apologies before I looked up to see into whom I had just barged. "Oh!"

"Hayley McCoy!"

"The Dominator," I breathed as I took in his large hands, massive, tree-trunk like thighs, and shoulders so wide I wondered how he fit through doorways.

"Yes, well," he said with a chuckle. "Most people just call me 'Dom.'"

His comment made me come to my senses. I held out my hand. "A real honor to meet you, sir."

His hand swallowed mine as his bright green eyes scrutinized me. "So you're my replacement, huh? Merlin, Fletch wasn't looking for brute force, eh? You're a bit puny, love."

I said nothing as he released my hand. All I could think about were the years I had spent watching the Dominator play Quidditch, and here he was, standing right there, insulting me.

Suddenly, I began to feel very defensive, but the emotion disappeared when his intimidating face morphed into a playful smirk.

"Relax, McCoy. I've seen you play. You're quite good. I was very impressed by that reverse pass you used against the Wimbourne Keeper. I've never liked Gretchings; he's such a prat. We were on Reserves together. Bloke kept trying to steal my girlfriend at the time. Course, now she's my wife, and he's missing his right eye. Come over here," he requested as he pointed out one of the vacated round tables, "and we'll talk some more."

Forty minutes later, I left the table with a dazed, goofy expression on my face. I was so blissfully unaware of my surroundings that I walked right past Des and Bryce without even noticing them – that is, until Bryce yelled my name about twenty centimeters away from my face.

"Oi, you berk, you'll make her go deaf – or blind!" Des reproached him with a whack on his back. "After being that close to your ugly mug."

"She looks funny," Bryce commented as he grabbed my chin and examined my face, ignoring the very dirty looks coming from Des and me.

"You know, you might actually have a point," Des agreed as she peered over for a closer look.

"Like she just had a nice shag funny," Bryce continued.

I ground my teeth together and swatted away his hand before taking a step back. "Oh, shut it. It's not what you think. I just finished a chat with the Dominator, and –"

"Tut, tut, Hayles. Such an older man? And he's married too! You vixen!"

"What'd Dom say?" asked Des, not bothering to acknowledge Bryce's comment.

"That I was 'very good.' No—wait! He said 'quite good.' But that's just words, right? Merlin, I can't believe I actually met the Dominator, and he liked me!"

It was a testament to our friendship that Des did not laugh; she did, however, seem to be swallowing very hard.

"Bloody hell, Miss Quidditch Sycophant, you're easy to please. Remind me to tell that to Jackwad—OW! SODDING HELL, WOMAN! Don't kick me THERE!"

"The Dominator asked about you!" I added cheerfully. "Said he wasn't surprised that you two were together."

"Yeah, cause there's no fighting Desiree's love for me," Bryce choked out weakly as he struggled to remain upright and still place an arm around Des's shoulder.

Des "harrumphed" but did not remove his arm.

"I think he was speaking more along the lines of 'it was either that or they'd murder each other.'"

"'Course," continued Bryce, not at all deterred by Des's lack of reciprocated affection, "Dom probably saw us during our worse times. You never really know what it's like to be miserable, Hayley, until you can't be with the person you're in love with." A pensive look came over his features, and Des actually looked over to make sure he was okay.

Bryce must have realized that he was behaving seriously for over twenty seconds because he slapped his face and then grinned wickedly. "What are we still over here for? Connor's the one payin' for all the food! I put an extension charm on my pants just for the occasion!"

I felt as though my denim skirt could have used a charm or two as I eyed the buffet table. There were dishes laden with savory sauces, honey roasted ham, pheasant, veal, chicken drumsticks, and lamb chops, as well as heaping trays of candied yams, buttered peas, roasted asparagus, and corn still on the cob. Beside the baskets of lovely rolls, buttered and still steaming a bit, I could see potatoes prepared in nearly every style: mashed, baked, double-cooked, chips, scalloped, and layered with cheese and broccoli.

Too eager to miss out on anything, I dolloped a bit of everything onto my plate, which was a considerable load to carry over to a table. Des and Bryce must have been thinking along the same lines because the contents of her plate were teetering dangerously close to spill over and Bryce had two plates.

Debating on what to sample first, I picked up my knife and fork, but before I could decide on anything, a few golden sparks shot up into the sky. I lowered my utensils as I looked around to see what was going on. On a raised platform on the patio, directly underneath the sloppily drawn banner, Connor was standing, glass in hand, with his wife, Morgan.

She was a very pretty woman with shoulder length terry brown hair, light eyes, and a wide smile. Beside her, Connor looked younger than I had ever seen him. The dark circles that always seemed to perpetuate under his eyes had all but vanished.

"Oh, bloody hell, a speech," Des muttered under her breath.

"Con Man won't care if I just nibble through it, do you reckon?" Bryce asked as he eyed his steaming plates of food. "C'mon' Con. Something short. Love you. Love you too. Let's eat."

Resignedly, I put my fork and knife down before turning to watch Connor.

"We'd like to thank everyone for coming," Connor said in his scratchy, low voice. "Haven't seen some of you since the nuptials. Couldn't resist the free grub, eh?"

The crowd of partygoers chuckled; Connor's wife gently nudged him with her hip.

"But, even though I'm thrilled to see you all gouging on our hospitality, nobody would be here today—hell I'd probably still be piling stock in Quality Quidditch Supplies—if it wasn't for this woman right here."

He turned to focus his gaze on his wife and with a shaky breath, he began again. "Morgan, you're everything. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, apart from our two daughters. You have made me—and continue to make me—a better man. You've put up with so much, the long nights, the early mornings," he paused to scan through the crowd, winking when he found Fletcher's face. "And I can only thank the universe for whatever magic it hoodwinked you with to make you stupid enough to marry me 'cause I'll never be so lucky for as long as I live."

There was a smattering of applause, and I watched as Morgan whispered something to him before she pulled him into a sweet kiss.

I stared in awe as I envied Connor's loving marriage and the ease with which he was able to speak about it.

Connor's dad lead the crowd into a toast, which I cheerfully took part in. There were a few more speeches and quite a bit more toasts until I could finally start eating; the steam was gone, but the food was thankfully still warm.

As we shoveled forkful upon forkful into our mouths, there was not much conversation, apart from Bryce's occasional crass comment.

Finally fed up with his teasing, Des slammed down her glass. "Stone, if you love me so damn much, why don't you just ask me to bloody marry you and be done with it?"

Bryce's smirk simmered. "Maybe I will," he replied coolly.

"Fine. Whatever."

After that, I felt a bit awkward sitting there with them, and I also ruddy had to use the loo. They blankly nodded when I excused myself and left the table.

As I clambered through the maze of occupied tables, I distinctly heard the unmistakable voice of Richard Cooke. I looked over to see him, dressed in dark blue as always, waving a fruity drink around.

"Now really, Oliver, son. When am I going to see you and my daughter tying the knot? The Dominator just asked me if he should be expecting an invitation any time soon. And you know, my Bridget would make a beautiful spring bride—"

I slammed the door to the house shut to avoid hearing anymore and frantically searched for a loo. After three failed attempts, I swung open the door to the loo, which was just beyond the sitting room.

I sank down onto the toilet and sat in such a state that even my very full bladder was stilled.

I stayed in the loo a few more minutes than necessary, paging through one of Connor's magazines about Herbology. When I opened the door to leave, I heard voices carrying from the sitting room.

"C'mon, don't be so cross. It's a party!"

"Bridge, your dad is out there more or less announcing our engagement right now!" a Scottish voice hissed back in reply.

Sucking in an air of breath, I hovered by the door and listened for the rest.

"He doesn't mean to be so tactless! You know Daddy!"

"Yeah, don't want to upset the boss or I'll get sacked."

Bridget must have also been astonished by his dark tone because I heard her gasp audibly. "Oliver!"

"Oh, er, Bridge. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"What's the matter? You've been like this since before Christmas."

"I reckon I just miss Quidditch."

"Quidditch? Oliver! It's just a ruddy game! Maybe Dad was right when he mentioned an engagement. We've been dating for over two years! You say your parents would object to us living together—not that they seem overly traditional. That's not the point. Oliver, I'm not saying we have to elope tomorrow, but are we ever going to move forward?"

"Bridget."

"Stop, Oliver! Every time I mention the future, you shut down. What's so wrong with the idea of us getting married? You do love me, don't you?"

I listened carefully for his response but only heard a loud thud and then the smacking of lips. Carefully, I tiptoed out of the corridor and past the sitting room.

Neither noticed me as I walked past them; they were far too busy.

Oliver's hands were braced against the peach colored walls, and Bridget's fingers were gripping his hair until they reached down to fist his shirt. There was no space between their bodies as their lips met fiercely.

Not wanting to watch them a second longer, I fled the house and ran as quickly as I could into the yard.

Scanning the patio, I found Bryce and Des sitting together, silently holding hands. Over by the buffet table, which had been cleared of dinner and was now supporting dozens of pies, tarts, and chocolates, Connor and his wife were eating a piece of cake together.

I ducked past Richard Cooke, who was heading towards me, and fished my jacket out of the large pile of coats. As I meandered through crowds of relatives, I spotted Jack, who was sitting alone at a table with a beer in hand.

He looked up at me and waved halfheartedly.

I returned the gesture and then journeyed to the front yard, from where I Disapparated home.

The flat was dark and empty when I arrived. Nora and Carter had left two days ago to go visit her extended family in Russia and share their engagement news and would not be back until the Tuesday of next week.

Using my wand to light my path, I trudged into the sitting room and collapsed onto the couch. My stomach gurgled, but I had already eaten all the baked goods Nora had made me before leaving.

I idly regretted not grabbing a few of cake off the dessert table at the party before I drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

On Sunday morning, I woke up to a still barren house and met Oliver at the park at our usual time. After stretching, we wordlessly began to run.

We ran longer than we had ever before. The whole time, I replayed memories of the past few months in my head, culminating in the affection between Connor and Morgan, Nora's jubilance at her engagement to Carter, the searing image of Bridget trapped between Oliver's arms and the wall as they kissed, the woeful look in Jack's eyes...

At around the tenth kilometer, something that Bryce Stone, the person I last expected to give me useful advice, said rang in my ears.

"_You never really know what it's like to be miserable, Hayley, until you can't be with the person you're in love with." _

I stopped suddenly. Oliver continued for a couple more paces until he realized I was not beside him, and he doubled back.

"Did you pull something?" he asked, panting slightly as he wiped perspiration off his forehead. "You should have stretched longer. It's the only way to prevent muscle tearing."

"What are we doing?" Despite the workout, my voice was steady.

"Running."

"No, Oliver. _What are we doing_?" I repeated emphatically.

This time he seemed to understand because he frowned deeply. "Hayley, don't. Just….don't."

Despite his request, words and questions came flying out of my mouth. "Why haven't we told anyone about our runs? If you're so concerned with the team's workout, why aren't they here too? What is this to you? What are we?"

He grabbed my forearm. "Hayley, you know I can't…Bridget…I…"

"That's right! Bridget! I overheard you at Connor's party," I said quickly, forgetting to be embarrassed about eavesdropping on their conversation. "How can you plan to marry her while you do this to me?"

"Hayley, I never—"

Worried that I might begin to cry if I heard him actually vocalize that he never meant for me to misinterpret his feelings about me, I did not give him a chance to say anything more because I flung my arm out of his grasp. "Save it," I spat. "This—whatever it was—is over."

And then I ran as fast as my feet could go.

He did not follow me.

I spent the rest of the day at my dad's, helping him man the bar and trying to coax him into eating less salt all the time.

The next day, training resumed, and I was more eager than ever to have the relief of Quidditch once more.

The day passed in long hours of arduous weight training, running drills, and discussing strategy. It appeared as though Fletcher had spent every one of our days off devising new plays.

"The first half of the season went well, but we can do better. I want us training longer, harder, and fiercer than ever before!"

By the time I left the showers, my aching limbs were hearing his words more than ever. Yet, I was not quite ready to go home and limp off to bed. Determined, I left the girls' locker room and waited on the grassy pitch until he arrived, fresh from his shower.

"Jack!" I called.

Jack tugged on his white cotton t-shirt, which was sticking to his still damp skin, and looked for the source of news. To say he was surprised to see that it was me was an understatement.

"Hayley!" he greeted me back in an astonished, but nonetheless, cheerful tone. "How are you?"

"Peachy," I answered quickly, bypassing over his never failing politeness.

"Great, I thought something might be up…we haven't talked in a while."

"I know, I'm really sorry, Jack. I'm such a prat. I've just been confused…"

No sooner had these words left my mouth than Oliver appeared out of the boys' locker room. I diverted my gaze away from where he was meeting up with Bridget and turned back to Jack.

"But I think I've figured things out now."

"Oh, really?" Jack said, still looking a tad befuddled. "Well, that's brilliant, then."

"Listen, I don't know if the offer is still good….but do you still want to go out for coffee sometime?"

Jack paused in surprise before a grin erupted onto his tanned face. "Yeah! Of course I still want to."

"Great," I answered back with a smile of my own. "There's just one slight problem, see, I don't actually like coffee."

"Oh, well, we can get anything you want! Hot chocolate, ice cream, a whole seven-course dinner if you're hungry enough."

"Sounds good."

"It's a date, then."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Another Friday, another chapter. Grassy face (Danica translation: "gracias," or simply, "thank you") to all of you for reading and reviewing thus far! Craziness that we've already come to chapter 7. Now, unfortunately for you readers but necessary for we writers, we will be taking a break between this chapter and chapter 8, until the first Friday in September. We're just anticipating being way busy once school starts. Even though there will be a break in posts, doesn't mean there'll be a break in writing, so we're treating this as a headstart for the rest of the chapters. This is all for want of enough time to produce a good story for you guys. And we saw this as the right point, plotwise, to take an intermission. Don't you fret; we'll be back. Molly says that you should all take this time to review with extra care and frequency because she is an attention-seeking slag with delusions of grandeur._

_So, in the interest of shamelessly trying to get reviews: what's your favorite moment from the harry potter books? what did you do this summer? what's your favorite eighties movie? chunky or creamy?_

_That last one referred to peanut butter. If you were thinking something else, you've been reading too much smut._

_Danica (and Molly)_


	8. Extracurriculars

_**SAAS INSTANT REPLAY:**_

_"Listen, I don't know if the offer is still good….but do you still want to go out for coffee sometime?"_

_Jack paused in surprise before a grin erupted onto his tanned face. "Yeah! Of course I still want to."_

_"Great," I answered back with a smile of my own. "There's just one slight problem, see, I don't actually like coffee."_

_"Oh, well, we can get anything you want! Hot chocolate, ice cream, a whole seven-course dinner if you're hungry enough."_

_"Sounds good."_

_"It's a date, then."_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight<strong>

**Extracurriculars**

* * *

><p>The ruthless cold weather persisted all throughout January. Fletcher, fearing for the condition of our brooms, made us take breaks every two hours to ensure that no permanent damage was done to the wood.<p>

He was less sympathetic about frostbitten fingers, much to Bryce's chagrin.

"You know how much that broom costs, Stone?" he barked out crossly. "It's a hell of a lot more than we pay you for your shitty technique! Laps!"

At the next practice, Bryce brought Fletcher a set of gloves that magically warmed your hands, and all was forgiven—at least until the next day when Bryce got in trouble again.

Despite the cold, we were flying well. Our record was 7-3, and we were second only to the Wimbourne Wasps in our league with excellent prospects for the Euro Cup.

As February rolled in, bringing with it sleet and hail the size of flying Snitches, the streets of London were suddenly redesigned in reds, pinks, and purples. I could not walk a few blocks to buy groceries or pay Nora a late-night visit at work without being assaulted with the commercialization of love.

Normally, Nora and I commemorated Valentine's Day with two pints: one, ice cream, and the other of something a wee bit stronger. However, now that Nora was engaged, she was perfectly happy to revel in the sappy pathetic-ness of lovers.

And, though I tried to fight it, even I could not completely denounce the wretched holiday. Jack and I had not been on our date yet; he did not want it to be a rushed bite of food and then a sprint back to practice. We had both been so busy practicing that there simply was no time for a night on the town with Jack Copeland.

Nevertheless, that did not mean we remained stagnant. I often caught Jack sending me secret smiles, which I returned quite readily. Just last week, we had both stayed late after practice one day and had a lovely chat in the stands. Luckily, Jack was much more skilled with heating charms than I was.

Because this week's match was on a Friday night, Fletcher only wanted us to come in on Saturday morning to discuss strategy, and we had the whole night off. Finally, we had our chance.

With the date to look forward to, matches going well, and Nora's special heart-shaped Linzer Tarts, really nothing was wrong with my life.

I did not even care that Oliver and I had not spoken directly to each other since that final run.

Whenever we had team runs now, he would run with Bridget, and I would keep pace with Jack. We both ran a bit slower than we normally did, but that was fine.

The day before our match, after a longwinded session in the Lab, Fletcher had us all on our brooms, going through a gameplay situation. Though it was only about four, the sky was already darkening.

Up in the air, I really wanted to rub my fingers together to get some feeling back in them but did not want to risk falling off my broom in the heavy windstorm.

Bridget, still searching for the Snitch that Tony had released, smiled weakly at me as she zoomed by. Her fuzzy pink earmuffs looked frozen.

About twenty paces below me, I could hear Bryce shrieking. "Murph! What hell are you talking about? There's nothing wrong with my backhand! Gah! Take that you fucker!" he added as he swung his heavy bat at an oncoming Bludger to emphasize his point.

Bill Murphy's magically amplified voice rang from the top box. "You're going to wear out your elbow, Stone!"

I laughed a bit to myself and then let out a yell as a Bludger came barreling towards my head. Frantically, I did a sloth roll to avoid it.

"Save the talk for later, Billiam!" shouted Des furiously. "Bruising his ego is going to get people hurt." She pelted the Bludger into an empty spot of the field. "You okay?" she demanded.

"Fine."

Des nodded curtly and then flew off to go find that Bludger.

"McCoy! Get back in formation! You're floundering up there!" Fletcher's voice bellowed, loud enough that he did not require any magical enchantment.

"Shit," I grumbled as I searched the sky for the robed figures of Jack and Connor. As I neared behind them, Connor tossed me the Quaffle.

Fastening it under my arm, I began to dart down the pitch towards the three goal posts; Connor and Jack flanked to my sides.

"Run the Hog Spine!" called Tony from the stands. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him gesticulating wildly with his clipboard.

My heart rate began to quicken as I tossed the Quaffle over my left shoulder. When I heard a thud, I knew I had reached my target. Then, as quickly as I could manage, I forced my Zenith into a vertical climb, pulled my legs up, and then launched myself off my broom.

Clutching the wood of my Zenith to my chest protectively, I forced my eyes to remain open as I began to fall downwards.

My stomach dropped as my robes and hair flew up behind me. For a second, I submitted to a moment of sheer terror before I spotted a pair of blue-covered shoulders and grabbed them.

With an "OOF!" I landed behind Jack and positioned my legs to straddle his broom, my own still grasped firmly in my right hand.

"Nice landing!" Jack yelled back to me as he urged his broom forward.

I grinned as the adrenaline pumped through my body, and I suddenly felt warm from head to toe. "Gotta love a high-risk defensive decoy!"

We both started laughing as I eased back my grip on his upper body and prepared to dismount.

"Catch you later!" Jack shouted over the sound of Tony's strategic orders as I flung myself onto my own broom.

We continued trying out our trickier maneuvers for about ten more minutes until Fletcher quieted Bill and Tony and told us all just to run regular gameplay for a bit before hitting the showers.

Fueled by the knowledge that soon I might be either dry or warm for the first time in hours, I gripped my Zenith's handle tightly as my fellow Chasers and I bulleted down the pitch. We began a fast passing pattern, flicking the Quaffle between us so quickly that it reminded me of a fly always evading a swatting.

Nearing the goal posts, Connor deftly threw the ball to me.

Quaffle in hand, I flew up to the right hoop and was about to sail it through when I sensed a figure flying at me through my periphery. Instinctually, I sent the Quaffle flying over my head.

Just as Jack approached the left goal hoop, Oliver braked right so closely to me that my hair flew up from the gust of wind.

Glancing over at where Jack had scored, Oliver then turned to look down at me and then flew away without a word.

Once we had finished practice, Bridget eagerly started chatting to me about the upcoming match. While I was more than willing to talk strategy, Bridget did not seem to want to stay on that topic long. Two minutes into my detailed analysis of Elijah Mortensen's Keeping technique, she interrupted me with a hitherto unprecedented fervor.

"Yes, but, Hayley, what do you think Jack has planned for your date on Saturday?"

"Oh, um," I replied stupidly, blindsided by the question. "How'd you know about that?"

Bridget patted my arm and gave me a pitying look that seemed to question my intelligence. "Really, pet, everyone on the team knows."

"Oh…everyone?"

"Well, the team is not exactly a large entity, and Connor enjoys gossip like an old woman."

I did not have time to think about the date much the next day because I had a match to prepare for. We trounced the Kestrels beautifully, thanks, mostly, to the brilliant offensive plays Fletcher and Oliver devised and Bridget's early catch of the Snitch.

I went to the post-match celebratory drink for a perfunctory amount of time before I went home to spend a bit of time with Nora and Carter. Nora wanted us to learn yoga before her wedding so that she could look nice in her dress.

I spent the better part of the night trying to explain to her that my body simply could not bend in such ways and ignoring Carter's sniggers from the couch. Eventually, with enough vodka in my system, I managed to get my limbs tangled into a sort of pretzel and need the combined efforts of Nora and Carter to right me.

Before heading to bed to get some rest before Saturday's events, I wrote a letter to home.

_Dear Dad,_

_Another win. I don't want you worrying about that Hog Spine Maneuver. We did it loads before we started trying it up in the air. And you've met Jack. He wouldn't let me fall. I'm good but exhausted. I'm busy tomorrow, but I'll try to stop by early Sunday morning when I'm free. Don't forget about your appointment with Healer Baccari and don't manage to conveniently forget his diet restrictions this time. Miss you._

_Love, _

_Hayley_

I contemplated adding the reason why I was going to be busy on Saturday, but I was too tired to do so. Instead, I sent it off with Anzhela, Nora's owl, and then slid onto the tiny, moth-eaten sofa beside Nora and fell asleep.

The next day, I was in a very similar position, only I was awake. Nora was snorting heartily, but it sounded so much like her snoring that it could hardly count as a difference.

"Hayley," she said as she patted my knee firmly. "You really should borrow a few of my girly books.

I frowned as I picked at the stray threads on the pillow in my lap. "I can't help that I've never been on a date," I grumbled back. "At school, you'd just go to Hogsmeade with a bloke or sneak off to someplace with curtains."

"And for the two years since we've left Hogwarts?"

"Err…yeah. Well, it's not like you have much to add. You and Carter have been practically married since you met each other."

"You know, _lastochka_, people go out on dates all the time. It's not like you're the first person this has happened to."

"That doesn't make me feel any better," I told her, wrinkling my nose like a petulant child.

The buzzer to our flat rang, and I heaved myself off the couch.

"What's that?" Nora asked.

"Reinforcements," I replied as I hurled open the door.

"You know, I don't think I've been on a date in five years," announced Des as she picked at her scabby hands in the doorway. "Do people still put out on the first one?"

I stepped away and let her come in. "Make yourself at home, Des. You've met Nora."

Des had stopped by before a few times after practice to crash when she decided to paint her flat because she felt her mother would approve of the original color scheme too much. Nora had only had the chance to talk to Des for a bit because she was still stuck in the night shift at work, but they seemed to have gotten along. Des certainly seemed to appreciate her carrot cake.

"Sup, Nora?"

A far better hostess than myself, Nora guided Des into the kitchen and began placing trays of baked goods onto the table for her to sample.

For a brief second, I stood back and admired the sight of Nora in her frilly pink bathrobe and pearls sitting beside Des, who wore a tattered excuse for a tank top and her dragon skin skirt. The second sound of the buzzer took me out of my reverie.

"Hayley, you didn't order pizza this close to your date, did you?" Nora accused. "I know you can eat like a pack of hippogriffs, but do you really want to go on a date smelling like pepperoni?"

"It's not pizza," I muttered as I went to get the door.

"Hello!" my very blonde guest greeted.

"Hey, Bridget. Come on in."

Bridget's brilliant beam flittered slightly when she eyed our peeling wall paper and mismatched furniture, but she kept her composure. "How quaint."

"Yes, well, I'm still working on developing my own line of milkshakes."

Bridget giggled and followed me into the kitchen. "Hi!" she announced perkily to the room.

"Er, right, Nora, this is Bridget Cooke," I began the introductions. As I continued, I caught Des's eye. She was staring at me with a baffled expression that was beginning to harden into extreme displeasure.

I merely shrugged my shoulders back. To be honest, I had never intended to invite Bridget to the date preparation time that Nora had insisted on having. Bridget just seemed so excited about my date plans that the invitation slipped out of my mouth before I knew what I had done.

Yet, I refused to sink into petty and rude behavior. Bridget was happy with her significant other, and I could not begrudge her that while I had dating prospects of my own. Perhaps we would get along better now that we were both with someone.

Besides, as it turned out, Bridget was the only one among the lot of us who knew anything about dating. She was filled with helpful suggestions.

"Never expect him to foot the bill. In the modern age, a girl's got to offer to do it too. Of course, since it's Jack, he'll refuse your offer. At that point, it's okay to accept, as it is a first date, but that doesn't mean you can always make him pay."

"Know your limitations. If you think he's pushing you too far, subtly let him know. It's all a matter of pushing your hair forward or buttoning up your cardigan. Boys use their eyes more than their ears."

"Don't play twenty questions. It's quite possibly the most horrid way of passing an evening. I hate it when characters do that in books. Just talk. If you can't talk to the bloke for a few hours without resorting to cheap games, he probably isn't for you."

Not realizing that she was trying to sip from an empty cup of tea, Nora stared at Bridget in awe. "How do you know so much?"

Bridget shrugged. "Practice, I suppose. I never really had much guidance, but I've picked up on things as time's gone by. Before Oliver, I used to go on a lot of first dates. Thank Merlin that stage of my life is over. It's dreadful being single."

Bridget knew a great deal about everything it seemed, from using broken tea cups to create custom picture frames to smothering your elbows in coconut oil to make them smooth.

"It's how I keep my hands so soft," she explained as she waved her pink nails in our faces. "It takes a heck of a lot of work to stay lady-like as a professional Quidditch player."

As she said this, I examined my own bloody cuticles and then briefly eyed Des's scabby palms and Nora's chaffed hands, which were red and irritated from the countless times she had to scrub them at the hospital.

Bridget Cooke, it seemed, was a whole different caliber of woman.

At four in the afternoon, it was between mealtimes. However, the time on the clock never stopped me from eating before. I offered the ladies some grilled cheese sandwiches, and we had a second lunch.

"This is really good, Hayley," Bridget complimented me as she wiped her mouth clean from any offending cheese residue.

"Well, I'm not the best cook," I apologized weakly. "Grilled cheese and waffles are pretty much the extent of my arsenal. Nora's the master of that domain. I humbly bow down to her chocolate chips of fury." Feeling pleasantly foolish, I toasted my glass of milk at Nora, who was shaking her head in amusement. "But I figured she deserved a day off today cause, you know, saving lives all day and planning a wedding can tire even Ellenore."

"You're getting married?"

And that was when I lost the ability to rein in Bridget's enthusiasm. As Nora began answering her rapid fire questioning, Des tilted her chair back on its hind legs and gave me a look.

"So where am I going tonight?" I asked her feebly, trying to sound braver than I felt.

"You know I wouldn't tell you even if I did know."

"True."

"But Jack kept me out of the goal post this time, which is surprising, because he's usually worse with secrets than…" she trailed off as she paused to chortle in appreciation out of Bridget's passionate promise to get Nora's whole wedding catered for free.

"Oh! You must let me! I insist! Daddy's been friends with the owner of Fantastic Feasts and Where to Wine Them for ages!"

"He had the proper sense not to say anything to Bryce, either. Nincompoop that he is," she added with something that could be labeled as fondness. "Connor is the only one who got a say, I reckon. Though, seeing as it is Jack, I can only imagine it'll be something extraordinarily proper."

She frowned at the last word. Des had explained to me that her parents had wasted a great deal of energy and galleons trying to get her to finish her schooling at Beauxbatons Academy and marry a nice French boy. Instead, she snuck out of her bedroom when she was fifteen to go live with her batty Aunt Angeline and transferred to Hogwarts.

"They never really took the time to get to know me, you know? They always just wanted, well, Bridget," she had told me. "So I decided to be a pain in the ass for a few years and then realized I was being a bit of a stereotype. Same thing happened with my brief vegetarianism. I don't want to be a cliché of the rebel, you know? Cause none of those prats are actually rebellious."

Recalling that conversation, I snorted into my milk in a most refined fashion while Des swung her chair back to the ground with a resounding thump.

"Do be careful with him, though. I reckon he really likes you."

As sandwiches were eaten and plates were washed and put away into cupboards with rusty or missing handles, I could not delay getting ready any longer. Jack was picking me up at six, and I was still wearing my rattiest pair of sweats.

"Oh, I can't believe we only have an hour!" bemoaned Bridget, seeming extremely dismayed. "I knew we should have begun earlier."

"What's there to do that'll take more time than that?" I asked.

Evidently, I had been very naïve. Or perhaps, I had just never cared enough about appearances and first impressions to primp properly. Nevertheless, it appeared as though dating demanded a great deal of fretting and inspired tremendous loads of stress.

"I just don't understand," I voiced as we examined the meager collection of dressy clothing in my closet. "Jack's seen me in a hundred degree heat. Hell, he's smelled me in a hundred degree heat. What's it going to matter if I show up wearing a certain sweater?"

"Aww, Hayle, just shut your gob and try not to use logic," Nora told me, sounding very much like Bridget. Then she laughed and winked at my bewildered expression.

Sounding very rational, which made me love her all the more, Des defended my decision to wear pants in the cold weather.

Somehow, however, we were overruled, and a knee-length black skirt and black tights were hurled at my face.

Evidently wanting to get back in my good graces, Nora handed me a pair of her comfortable black shoes to wear.

Des eyed them strangely. "Are those dragon hide?"

"Just normal Muggle leather," answered Nora with a shrug.

"Bizarre."

Meanwhile, Bridget was tutting as she examined my scanty collection of sweaters. "It's important not to show too much skin, or you'll give the wrong impression. Even if he's already seen you in less, it's good to keep the bloke you're dating guessing. As soon as I joined Puddlemere and met Oliver, I forced Daddy into getting the ladies their own changing room. Of course, Dad didn't really argue with that request. Still, I am a bit proud. We were the first team in the League to give women a separate place to change. Oh! This is peculiar. I'm so used to seeing you in navy," she said with a sigh. "But many different things might work well: chartreuse, cream, buttercup."

"Er, are those desserts?"

Bridget must have thought I was joking because she twittered in laughter. "You know, Oliver has mentioned that you look quite pretty in red," she said as she held up the red sweater to my chest.

"She'll take the purple," Des said firmly as she tossed the red sweater under my bed before I had the chance to think up anything with which to respond.

I eyed their eager gazes warily. "Err…I don't have to change with you all in here, right?"

Once I had finished changing in privacy, Nora took out her makeup bag, and we went to the bathroom.

I was rather thankful that Nora elected herself in charge of doing my face because Bridget often looked a bit too perfect and Des nearly always had eyeliner smudged down to her cheeks.

As Bridget chattered away about color palettes, Nora let me handle most of the basics and then just wiped a bit of shimmery gunk onto my eyelids.

Bridget laughed at me when I took out a tube of lipstick. "Lip gloss, Hayley, hun. You're not Helga Hufflepuff."

Examining my face in the mirror, I was satisfied with the outcome. I really did not wear makeup much because I hated the feeling of it melting when I played Quidditch; it made me feel like a human bar of chocolate.

Yet, it was nice, every so often, I supposed, to make the extra effort. I tugged at my hair, which I had haphazardly tied on the top of my head after my shower, and let it down.

"Leave it just like that," Bridget demanded. "You have such pretty hair. I'm so jealous of the natural wave."

Blinking, I stared at Bridget, who looked ridiculously more beautiful than I ever could, despite the past forty-five minutes of effort. I could not help but to feel a bit flattered, even if the idea that she was jealous of me was completely absurd.

Because Jack had insisted on coming to our flat and picking me up, Nora, Des, and Bridget left shortly to give me privacy. I thought it was very considerate of them until Bridget let slip that they were heading to have drinks together at McCoy's.

Before she Apparated, I grabbed Nora's elbow. "Don't let Dad tell any embarrassing stories."

Nora laughed and patted my cheek. "Aww, _golubchik_, but then, I'd have to do a Silencing Charm on him. Have fun on your date!"

And then with a pop, she disappeared.

Alone in the flat, I suddenly felt very anxious. I filtered through my bureau drawers until I found a thin, rectangular box haphazardly shoved in with my socks.

For a few minutes, I debated putting on the necklace Jack had bought me for Christmas. I supposed it was very pretty with a star pendant hanging from a gold chain.

However, I could not bring myself to take off the silver three hoops my mom had given me so I put the necklace back with my socks and then paced around the sitting room until I finally heard the buzzer.

When I opened the door, Jack was there with a single red flower in his hand. "This is for you."

I took it from him hesitantly. It was the first flower I had ever received in my life. I stared at its petals for a bit in shock. "Oh, thanks for the flower. It's a nice uh—"

"It's an Amaryllis. Connor helped me pick it out," he admitted. "He likes to dabble into Muggle botany, every now and then."

I nodded slowly, still looking at the flower.

"You're supposed to put it in water and then rush off to go disappear to the loo for a bit," Jack instructed me kindly.

"Water, right!" I realized as I gestured for him to come inside. "Don't worry about the loo, though. I did that part already." I scrambled down to the kitchen floor to search through our assorted pots and pans to try to find a vase.

Jack grinned a bit nervously. "Yes, I noticed. You look very pretty, Hayley."

Despite myself, I blushed and then dropped a frying pan onto the floor. It banged loudly. "Err, thanks. Right back at ya." After I said it, I peeked over the kitchen counter at him.

I suddenly realized that I had never really noticed what Jack was wearing before, though I was never one for fashion. Even when we went out for parties after matches, I was more interested in what bruises he had than what he had on. Today, however, I reckoned he really did look handsome, dressed in black trousers, a blue dress shirt, and a narrow tie and, as always, bearing a freshly shaven face.

I jumped when his blue eyes found mine as he leaned over the counter.

"Find a vase yet?"

Frantically, I dove back into the cabinet. "Gotcha!" I exclaimed happily as I emerged with one of Nora's vases in hand.

Once the amaryllis was placed in water, I grabbed my purse, and we left the flat.

From that point on, the evening continued with a flurry of movement and tasks. We did not have the time to devote to a series of awkward pauses and askance glances because of our swiftly approaching dinner reservations.

Personally, I was grateful for the harried rush to get to the Muggle restaurant, called Les Deux Salon, in London. Jack had to jabber at the maître d' before we were seated at a small rectangular table covered in white linen.

I was so in awe of his ability to speak French that I did not notice he was trying to pull out my chair for me and ended up circling the table to go sit on the other side.

A waiter with a heavy accent that sounded a bit fake talked to us about the wine menu and specials, and for a while, I concentrated on trying to figure out which menu item sounded the most like steak and potatoes.

When it came time to order, Jack ordered something that sounded a bit like a sneeze. Another waiter approached our table and offered us a basket of steaming bread. He stared in haughty disgust as I ripped a bit off with my teeth.

Though my grilled cheese seemed like ages ago, I did not want to embarrass Jack, so I placed the roll on one of my many plates and then fiddled with the white napkin on my lap.

"I didn't know you could speak French," I said once the annoying waiter left.

Jack shrugged. "My mum made me learn when I was little. I'm a bit rusty, I'm afraid. My French is nowhere near as good as Des's. Though, of course, she hates it."

"Oh la la," I mumbled back, employing my limited language skills.

However, despite the dim lighting, crowded tables, and small portions of food that arrived, I was able to ignore my distaste for the restaurant and have fun with Jack, almost as though it was any afternoon eating ham sandwiches at the pitch.

"Five, really?" I questioned again.

Jack sighed with a smile. "Hayley, I told you I came from a big family."

"I know, but five younger sisters? That's mental!"

Jack laughed as he expertly twirled pasta onto his fork. "You have three older brothers," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but I complain about them all the time. Pains in my ass who think they're the best wizards since Dumbledore," I added darkly, earning myself a grunt from a large bloke with a dark mustache dining with his horse-faced blonde wife.

"Well, it was not the easiest way to grow up, I imagine," he allowed once he had finished chewing. "My mum always says that I'll make a good husband because I'm used to living with women."

"Yes, I think you should open with that when introducing yourself to the ladies."

Jack ducked back his head bashfully. "Still, I had a heck of a time trying to keep the blokes away from them at Hogwarts. You have no idea how many times I would conduct patrols of the Hufflepuff Common Room."

"Hufflepuff?"

"Yes, that was my house. My whole family was sorted into Hufflepuff. It's okay, you can laugh."

"Why would I laugh?" I asked with a smirk.

"Because you were obviously in Gryffindor and are bound to be thinking something snarky about me."

I swallowed my snicker and made quite a show of proving that I could be polite.

Once he noticed my obvious efforts to behave, Jack began again, as though awarding me for my tact. "I quite liked being in Hufflepuff. I made terrific friends."

"Did you know Bridget when she was in school?"

"Bridget?" he repeated. "She was a Ravenclaw."

"Oh, er, I didn't know that. I guess I just assumed."

"Gryffindors," Jack commented while rolling his eyes.

"So you were saying?"

"Right, well, I still had to watch out for the blokes, though. Clara, Mary, and Charlotte were far too popular for their own good. I shudder to think about what Eileen and Amy got up to without me. I graduated before they went to school," he added for my benefit.

"Overprotective, huh?" I teased. "As a little sister, I can say, it only causes us to rebel more."

"That's why I started working out!" exclaimed Jack. "Regardless of Quidditch, I needed to be able to bang someone on the nose. Magic doesn't quite cut it if they defile your little sister."

I laughed, both at his comments, and how the apples of his cheeks had turned pink from excitement. "Jack, I don't think you'd ever punch someone."

"Yes, I would," he said indignantly.

"Have you?"

"Yes, I have!"

"Really?" I asked in surprise. "What happened?"

"Well, I was three, and I accidentally hit my next door neighbor in the face. I felt really torn up about it. I knocked out one of his baby teeth. My mum had me bring over brownies later in apology."

I sniggered into my napkin. "Oh, Jack."

"What about you?"

"Yes, I accept brownies as currency."

"No. Since you find my story so amusing, have you ever punched someone?"

I leaned back in my chair as I thought about the question. "My older brothers know my fist quite intimately by now," I said with a grin. "I got in a fight when I was very young on the playground—quite messy. There was a bit more damage than one missing baby tooth. Then, there was Madam Malkin, but you've already heard of that dress robes fiasco."

"Ah, my apologies for being so negligent."

I waved my hand. "I can hardly expect you to remember all the rubbish that comes spewing out of my mouth. Hmm…who else? There was that nasty girl in the summer after third year; she had the audacity to make fun of Dad. A few customers at the bar, but that's usually just to get them sober. I really got Serena Winters good in the eye after she had a go at Nora when we were fifth years. Oh! And there was Kyle Santorum—doubt he'll ever cheat on a girl again," I added fondly before noticing that Jack's jaw was agape.

"What?" I asked.

"Oh, nothing," he said quickly before swallowing a bit of water. "So, tell me more about your brothers! Their names are Ayden, Brendan, and Collin, right?"

"You remembered!"

"Well, some of the 'rubbish you spew' sinks in," he brushed away. "What are they like?"

I sighed. "How much time do you have?" I grumbled jokingly.

"Well, Fletcher will probably murder us if we aren't at practice tomorrow morning, but till then? I'm yours."

I shot him a silly look to diffuse the tender moment and then launched into a long, tangent-filled explanation of my three older brothers. I told him the logistical facts about Ayden's wife Claire and my two nieces Sarah and Hannah and nephew Billy, Brendan's engagement to Melissa, and Collin's most recent girlfriend who was named either Sam or Stacy; it was hard to keep track. Then, however, I divulged into the good stuff. I was in the middle of explaining a prank I played on Collin so that we tricked one of his old girlfriends into thinking he was Frankenstein's monster by shrinking his clothes, putting a babbling charm on him, and charming his face green when our waiter came back to ask us if we wanted dessert.

"Philippe," I sighed with a shake of my head. "Have you learned nothing about me at all?"

"Perhaps the Mademoiselle would benefit from chewing with her mouth closed more often," he muttered.

"Something chocolate will do fine," I said quickly, dismissing him, as Jack's expression turned angry.

"You really should have let me have done something," he said as we waited for our dessert.

"What? Were you going to punch him?" I teased.

As we left the restaurant, I swung my annoying black purse over my shoulder, almost hitting myself in the face in the process. Now, on the sidewalk away from dim lighting and soft background music, I felt much more at ease. "That was fun."

Jack stopped walking and eyed me carefully. "It was a little pretentious, you can say it."

"I felt a bit like a McCoy in a china shop, but, hey, what else is new?"

Jack smiled. "Sorry. The reviews gave it too much hype, I think. I just wanted a place for us to go where we wouldn't get bombarded by any reporters. Not that that normally happens to me," he added.

"What? But you're a Chaser for Puddlemere United!"

Jack shrugged. "There's no angle on me. They'd much rather interview Oliver or Bridget. It's okay. I don't mind being forgettable by the press, just as long as it's not with the people I know."

And then suddenly Jack's face was very close to my own, and I could see just how blue his eyes were underneath that sandy hair.

"I had a really nice time tonight," I blurted out as his eyes closed.

Jack smiled and widened the distance between us. "Well, it's not over yet."

"It's not?"

"No! We can't just eat! I have something else planned. That is—if you're up for it."

"I'm game."

A half an hour later, I was waiting for Jack to return with drinks. The jazz club, Octave, was dark and smoky, and I watched as men dressed in dark clothing fiddled around with sound equipment on the stage.

Sitting alone at the small table, I fiddled with a napkin as I caught bits and pieces of the conversations around me.

"Really, Rupert, you think Al Bowlly was a better singer than Bing Crosby? Are you deaf or do you have no taste at all?"

"My dear, I do hope they get a move on. This is not the theater, after all."

"Yes, yes, I have had the honor of hearing the Jazz Warriors live, it was the most urban…"

"Fine, Grace. If you refuse to drop it, I suppose Sinatra was decent…for an American."

"Blimey, the people here tonight. Nigel, you'd think they'd let anyone with ears into this place."

"Excited?" Jack asked me, effectively distracting me from the awful woman smoking a cigar and wearing a mink coat a few tables away.

I smiled as he placed a glass of Rum and coke in front of me.

"Is this okay? I wasn't sure…"

"It's fine," I answered before tossing back my drink. "Though, according to Bridget, I'm not supposed to let you pay for everything. How much was the cover charge? I'll convert it into galleons."

"Don't worry about it."

"Jack, if this is you being all chivalrous—"

"Well, yes and no. I'm actually good friends with Parker Robins. He's the bloke who's going to be playing tonight. He invited me to come free of charge."

"Oh, well, that's okay, then."

Jack grinned and nudged me lightly with his shoulder as I took a sip of my drink.

"How do you know this Parker bloke?"

"We used to take lessons from the same batty old Muggle woman down the street. Poor Parker; he was allergic to her cats. He could never get through his adagios without sneezing. Everything was a mess of sharps, flats, minor chords, and dissonance."

I did not have a bloody clue what he was saying, so I just took another sip of my drink, which was already halfway gone.

"He switched teachers after a few months, but we've written to each other. I like having Muggle friends. It's nice to be able to talk about things I'm passionate about without having Quidditch making an appearance, you know?"

Frankly, I did not know, and that realization made me feel completely inadequate. Des trained Griffins sometimes (when the Ministry was not watching too closely). Connor had a family and his Herbology hobby. Bridget was in charge of a whole charity that had something to do with helping victims of potion-related accidents. Hell, even Bryce seemed to have a life outside of the pitch.

Sure, I had McCoy's, but that belonged to my father more than it did to me. I had no hobbies, unless eating could be considered a pastime. I had never cared for sewing or collecting Chocolate Frog cards or playing Gobstones. The only music I owned was that record Bryce had given me for Christmas.

Quidditch was all I knew. For a second, I felt like the most pathetic person in the world until I remembered that there was another soul in the world just like me.

Except he and I were dating other people.

"Hayley?"

The lights dimmed as a man, presumably Parker Robins, positioned himself behind the piano.

"Oh, the show is about to start," I said as I settled back in my chair.

We sat in silence as the music played, except for Jack's occasional humming along with the melody. I leaned in closer to him so that I could hear his voice.

Jack swung his arm along my shoulder, and I felt very warm.

At the end of the night, Jack and I walked until we found an abandoned alleyway from where we could Apparate.

"Thanks, Jack," I said as I pulled my coat around me firmly as a wet sludge-like sleet began to fall down. "I've never really been on a date before, but this was really good."

"Really? I was a bit worried. Connor reckoned I should have tried to cook for you, but—"

"With five younger sisters, you never needed to learn how?" I guessed, earning myself a chuckle. "Don't worry. I can't cook either."

"Well, then," replied Jack. And then once again his face was very close to my own. "I guess we can always order in."

I closed my eyes as his lips met mine. It was soft and quick and so very much like Jack. Afterwards, he pulled back slightly and placed his forehead against mine as his fingers played with the back of my hair.

Jack sighed gently. "I've been waiting ages to do that."

I stayed still and let him kiss me again.

Although I was mostly pleased with how the evening had gone, in spite of my lack of dating experience, I was still a bit uneasy, so after Sunday night dinner had been cleaned up and Ayden, Brendan, and Collin had returned home, I lagged around in Dad's flat to talk to him.

"You should really toss that beef jerky out, Dad. I know it's hidden in the cupboard by the sink."

"Bloody observant. Fine, I'll chuck it. Now, what's goin' on, girl?" Dad asked me finally. "You've been pussyfooting around for ten minutes. You in some sort of trouble?"

"No."

"Out with it, Hayley."

I sighed and then drudged up my fear. "Dad, do you reckon I'm boring?" I asked, frowning as he began to guffaw. "What? It was a real question."

"Hayle, you're a professional Quidditch player. What about that is boring to you?"

"Well, nothing, obviously," I replied as I slumped down onto one of the chairs around his kitchen table. "It's just, well, everybody else on the team has other stuff going on. I feel like maybe I should get a hobby or something."

Dad flung the dishrag he was using to wipe the counter and then sat down opposite me. "Hayley, do you really think learning to knit or reading a bunch of boring books is gonna help you any?"

"Not really," I admitted.

"That's cause you use the brains God gave yeh. You tried all that codswallop when you were younger. 'Member when I made you take dance lessons?"

"Vividly." I was asked to leave in the second week when I accidentally broke the collar bone of one of my fellow ballerinas.

"It never took," he continued with a hearty laugh. "I don't see why a girl like you's got to bother with any of that rubbish. You're good just the way you are."

"But, Dad, all I've got is Quidditch."

"No, it ain't, Hayle. Quidditch may be what you love, but it ain't who yer are. Yer a good girl. You got Nora, don't you? And family? And you got you. Don't underestimate that ever. Besides, any person who feels so passionate for somethin' should never apologize for it. For me, it was yer mum. If you find somethin' that just works like beer and peanuts, you don't mess with it. You get me, Hayle?"

"Yes, sir. I get you."

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_Oh hey! How goes it? Thanks for coming back and reading this next installment! We are pleased - just kidding to those of you who will hate us when I say this - to inform you that this story will only be 13, that's THIRTEEN, chapters. Sorry. So, enjoy the Friday Molly updates while you can! Molly also wants me to share that, "if you're waiting for a fancy outfit ball/pervy dance scene, this chapter is as girly as SAAS is going to get, for we're going for a nontraditional fanfic by hopefully sticking to a more canon Wood." We hope your summer (or whatever season it is in your land) is going (because it still is; I refuse to believe it's over until it's over) well and full of Pottermore acceptance letters! I'll be partying with Jack in the Hufflepuff common room [insert snarky Hufflepuff crack here]. Happy reading and summer-ing!_

_~Danica_

_P.S. We are very grateful for all the reviews!_


	9. Hovering

**_SAAS INSTANT REPLAY:_**

_"But, Dad, all I've got is Quidditch."_

_"No, it ain't, Hayle. Quidditch may be what you love, but it ain't who yer are. Yer a good girl. You got Nora, don't you? And family? And you got you. Don't underestimate that ever. Besides, any person who feels so passionate for somethin' should never apologize for it. For me, it was yer mum. If you find somethin' that just works like beer and peanuts, you don't mess with it. You get me, Hayle?"_

_"Yes, sir. I get you."_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine<strong>

**Hovering**

* * *

><p>As February faded into March, I desperately wished that Fletcher would schedule more practices. He did not need to, of course, because we had won all four of our last matches, but I really would have appreciated the excuse.<p>

It was not that I did not want to spend time with Jack; I did. Our dates, whether they involved ice skating, going to the cinema, or strolling down Diagon Alley, were always pleasant. Jack lavished me with attention and gallantry and was perfectly amiable. We laughed often, and I truly enjoyed being with him. Jack was a fine boyfriend.

I was the problem. I had no trouble holding hands or leaning in for the occasional kiss on the cheek. But sometimes, Jack would look at me with this blazing look in his eye, and I would be forced to look down at my shoes, my lap, or a passing stray cat.

I was not daft. I knew what it meant. I also knew that the primary reason I was secretly urging Fletcher to work us harder was because that would give Jack and me less opportunity to get to know each other on a more intimate basis.

We had not done much beyond snogging, though, but I could tell that Jack clearly was eager to do more. He might tuck his collared shirts in, but even the utmost politeness could not deny the blatant evidence digging into my hip.

I tried so hard to fall in love with Jack. When Valentine's Day came around, instead of bitterly serving alcohol to equally jaded customers at McCoy's—as per tradition—I actually donned one of Nora's dresses and went out for a romantic dinner with Jack.

The team all knew that we were dating. Fletcher had warned us to keep things professional because since neither Jack nor I was the captain or the owner's daughter, he had no qualms about "kicking your asses out of the pitch for screwing up my Quidditch team."

Cooke was much more supportive of our relationship. As soon as he found out, he called us up to his office to talk promotion ideas. Apparently, Cooke thought our personal life would be perfect fodder for the wizard tabloids. "We could turn you two into the next power couple!" he hoped eagerly, clapping his hands together. "We could even introduce a new milkshake flavor—Jackley!"

Fortunately, because romance among players was not encouraged, there was nothing in our contracts about how to handle the press in these sorts of situations so Jack and I were free to turn down Cooke's offers and others from various press organizations. Cooke was very putout that we had gone down the "Des and Bryce" path, but there was not really much he could do about the matter.

Nevertheless, we still found our way into some publications, to my abhorrence. I tried very hard to ignore the pressing questions, but a few incidents had occurred.

I was still seething about an event that had taken place just last week. Jack and I had been walking to the visitor entrance to St. Mungo's to go bring Nora some hot food when a little girl approached us to ask for an autograph.

It was the first time anyone had ever asked me to sign anything, so I was feeling a bit strange as she handed me the quill. Dazed, I did not notice that she had been covering the picture of Jack and me together until after we had both signed it.

"Thanks!" she chimed as she ripped the magazine out of my hands. "This will be worth at least ten galleons once you two break up!"

Yet, despite everyone else's reactions, I was still struggling with my own. Initially, I had wanted so badly to find happiness with someone else that I had ignored my misgivings. I had been fueled with desire to prove that I could be in a relationship with someone who was not a burly Scotsmen.

Dad adored Jack. That made things so much harder. Plus, Jack, himself, was much too nice. So, out of desire not to hurt him in the short term, I was allowing Jack to snog me as I pondered what to do next.

In the meantime, I refused to allow myself to think of Oliver. When I saw him and Bridget, I averted my gaze.

Our relationship had not improved much. Beyond discussing strategy at team meetings, Oliver and I still did not speak to each other. Though a significant absence in my life, he began popping up in my dreams.

It was always the same, and it seemed so familiar, like a memory I had long forgotten. I was just eleven, and I was sitting up in the pitch at Hogwarts as I watched him fly around after practice had ended. He looked so impressive in his scarlet robes as they waved in the breeze. Then, he would fly over to me, and suddenly, I would be twenty again, and his robes would change to blue. He would stare at me and then hold out his hand as he whispered, "What are you waiting for, Hayley?"

"Woah, Hayley, are you all right?"

"What?" I asked as I blinked up to see Jack staring at me with a concerned expression. I sighed and rested my elbows on the table. At some point, the waitress must have brought my steak sandwich because it was sitting in front of me. I blanched; I really must have been out of it if I had missed the arrival of food. "Sorry," I apologized as I collected myself in the cozy café Jack seemed so fond of. "My mind was wandering."

"What were you thinking about?" he asked, gesturing with his spoon.

"Oh, you know, I was just thinking about sky diving with Nora for her bachelorette party since I reckon I should probably start planning and getting ideas."

"Sky diving? I've never heard of that before. Do Muggles do that? It sounds like you'd be trying to swim through the sky."

When I explained to Jack that that was the general idea, he tried very hard to dissuade me from doing something so hazardous to my health. "Why don't you go to a spa or shopping or something? Isn't that what most girls do for bachelorette parties? I'd bet Nora would like that. You could buy her some new pearls."

"She has enough as it is."

"It was just a suggestion, Hayley."

"Jack," I grumbled, getting a bit frustrated with him, "stop being such a prat. It's not like we don't spend half our days dangling around in the air as Fletch barks out orders."

Jack's shoulders slumped theatrically. "I know. Johnny Fletcher is a very talented, kindhearted man, but sometimes he can be quite an unrelenting slave driver!"

I grinned. "That's quite possibly the most unforgiving thing I've ever heard you say, Jack Copeland. Now what would your mother say?"

"She would probably do nothing, knowing that she raised a proper boy who would be punished enough by his own guilty conscience. Oh my goodness, I'm glad Fletch gave us the day off. I don't know how many more times I can practice that Hog Spine drill."

"You know, Connor told me Tony mentioned that he's been trying to come up with a way to tweak that move."

"Oh, because it wasn't dangerous enough already! Hayley, he's already got you jumping off your broom!"

"But, Jack! It's strategic genius! Besides, I don't mind the risk when it's for the team."

Jack, murmuring about foolhardiness, shook his head and then indulged me in a few more minutes' talk of Quidditch practice as the steak sandwich on my plate grew smaller until it was all gone.

I felt like it might reappear, however, when the harmless subject of Quidditch inspired Jack to say something entirely undesired.

"You know, I'm surprised Fletcher hasn't said anything about tension in the team."

I coughed into my glass of water. "Ack—sorry. Huh?"

"Well, I mean, I know spreading rumors never leads to any good, but, you'd purposefully have to be looking the other way not to notice whatever it is going on between Bridget and Oliver. Hayley? Are you okay? Maybe you should talk to Nora about getting you a Pepperup Potion. Practice yesterday in the snow was too brutal. It's funny. Connor always says that he complains about how hot the weather is in the summer, but he misses it terrifically once February hits. Perhaps, I should ask Fletcher to let you take some time off."

"Jack, stop, I'm fine. Don't worry."

"All right. Well, are you ready to go? I've just finished my soup. Why are you rolling your eyes at me?"

"Well, because, FlapJack, you see, soup just isn't a meal. Everybody knows that."

Even though I was still able to appease Jack's worrying, after our lunch, I was unable to dodge the tension Jack had mentioned.

I must have been working extremely hard to elude the signs before because practices suddenly became charged with unspoken passive aggressiveness.

I was now hyperaware of the way Bridget took to taking five minutes longer to get changed at the end of practice or Oliver's new lust for getting to the pitch a two hours before practice began, not his usual hour.

They spoke to each other in impeccably polite tones and always remembered to peck each other in the morning. Both seemed more tired than usual, causing Bridget's normally glowing skin to turn waxy looking. Yet, they never came out and said anything negative at practice.

This only served to make things more awkward because, of course, everyone knew, or could at least guess, what was going on.

However, late after one practice on Wednesday, I was privy to firsthand knowledge of their relationship woes. As I was taping up the fingers in my left hand, which a mediwitch had just recently popped back into their sockets, Bridget barged into the locker room area; her hands covered her face, but I could still hear her sobs.

Frozen, I watched as she fell onto the bench and crumpled in half. Carefully, I tossed my tape into my locker and then picked up my bag with my good hand. Accidentally, I knocked my bruised knuckles onto the locker's surface and hissed loudly, causing Bridget to look around.

"Oh, Hayley, it's only you. I thought maybe Oli—no matter," she finished firmly before wiping at her tears and offering me a feeble smile.

She looked so pathetic that even though a bit of me hated her I found myself sympathizing for her greatly. "Hey, Bridget," I said, keeping my voice soothing, "is everything okay?"

Bridget fiddled with her smile so that it looked more genuine, and then sighed and looked more miserable than ever. "No, actually. Everything's lousy."

I did not really want to, but I had no choice but to down the shot. "Er, do you wanna, you know, talk about it?"

And then Bridget relayed years of information to me. She spoke of what Oliver had been like when they had first started dating—a Quidditch obsessed maniac who thought of nothing but strategy and World Cup predictions—and how she thought she could help him evolve.

"And the thing is, it was working!" she bemoaned. "We had finally reached a point where I thought he'd finally propose. I must be the biggest troll in the world."

"Bridget, you're not a troll."

"Well, yes, I know," she said frankly as she frowned down at her hourglass figure. "But I am mental. We've been fighting so much recently! I thought we were going to get married! Now I think we might break up!"

"But, Bridget," I said, choosing my words very carefully. "Wouldn't you be better off? I mean, maybe Oliver isn't the right bloke for you."

Bridget sighed as she considered it. "But he has so much potential!" she bemoaned. "I'm sure if you got to know him a bit better, you'd see, Hayley. He's such a great bloke."

I nodded because, really, I knew exactly what she meant.

After that night, there was a definite shift in team dynamic. Though Bridget kept trying to catch Oliver's eye, he avoided her advances. He even skipped our celebratory trip to McCoy's after we beat the Pride of Portree.

He was still evading me, but he was showing Jack more attention than ever. At team meetings, he would point out at least four or five of Jack's technical errors and pushed him to try more aggressive and dangerous plays.

Jack did his best to shrug it off, but once a week had passed without much change, he was getting concerned. He brought it up to me as we left practice together. "I mean, I don't know why he's chosen me. I know I'm not the best player on the team, but he's acting like I insulted his mum! I would never do that! I have the utmost respect for all mums!"

Bryce, however, seemed to know what was going on. When Des was not around, he found me and whispered in my ear, "Seems like our little Jack-in-the-Box has met the wrath of a sexually frustrated Wood-less. Ten galleons that Oliver breaks his nose and then Jack apologizes for it?"

Though Bryce's unnervingly frank comment disturbed me, I could not help but notice that he was alarmingly accurate. I was seriously considering going up to Oliver and giving him a good punch to the nose. He definitely deserved it.

The urge to bodily harm Oliver was almost overwhelming at practice late on a Tuesday evening. The weather was not entirely warm, but because it was neither snowing nor hailing, I considered it downright balmy.

My fellow players, excluding Oliver, who probably did not even notice the change except to note the different traction conditions, certainly seemed uplifted by the temporary relief from the elements.

"Maybe when I take a shower tonight, I'll actually be dry when I go in," commented Connor wistfully at lunch. "Morgan will appreciate it. She says I smell like our dog."

"Well, you do a bit, Dad," Jack teased. "You've got to make a bit of effort if there are ladies present," he added with a smile in my direction.

I shrugged and ripped off a bit of my sandwich. "I don't really care, Con. Just as long as you don't drop any passes."

After my comment, Jack's smile drooped; he spent the next hour of passing drills acting as moody as Oliver was.

"What?" I asked him curtly as we prepared for the scrimmage Fletcher wanted to end practice with.

"Hayley, don't you ever—I mean, I thought once we started dating, things would change."

"Things have changed," I pointed out I said while tossing a Quaffle at his chest. "We snog, don't we?"

"Yes, we do," he replied quickly, the tips of his ears going red in embarrassment, as he scanned the pitch to make sure no one was listening on the grassy pitch. Fortunately, Bryce seemed to be in the midst of a highly engaging tale, so no one was paying us much mind. "I just meant, well, when are you going to let me take care of you?"

"I don't need any bloke to take care of me, thanks."

"Of course—I didn't mean it like that."

"Well, what did you mean? I'm not Bridget, Jack."

"I know you're not! I didn't ask you to be!"

"Well, you're doing a damn good job of it now," I grumbled before sighing tiredly and fixing my shin guards, which were cutting into my calves. When I looked back up, Jack was wearing a very apologetic expression. "Sorry," I mumbled.

"Me too. We just need to work on our communication skills. But it's okay, Hayley, we'll figure it out," Jack replied as he leaned over to kiss me quickly, as though sealing the promise.

Looking over Jack's shoulder, I saw Oliver staring at me, his jaw popping to the side. Obstinately, I glared back at him until he finally looked away.

The scrimmage was going well; Des had been a second too late when a Bludger zoomed my way, but it only got my pinky finger.

"Is it bleeding?" she asked.

"Nope."

"Good. I'm going to put it back in place on three. One—"

"Fuck!" I hissed through gritted teeth.

"It's better when you're not expecting it. Just suck it up till later. I'll tape it up for you after practice. Gotta go!" she said briskly as she turned to see a Bludger flying towards Bridget. I could hear Bill Murphy shouting loudly in the distance. "Dammit, Bryce! Where the fuck are you!"

I rolled my eyes when I heard Bryce's reply and then hurried back into position.

"McCoy?" I heard Fletcher bark out from the stands.

"Fine, Coach! Just a finger. I've got nine others!" To my left, Jack noticeably relaxed.

"I see your elbow twitching in your passes. Get it together!"

Growling, I flattened myself against my broom as Connor passed Jack the Quaffle. Jack zoomed towards the goal hoops and shot the ball towards the center hoop, but Oliver came zooming forward, flinging himself off his broom so that only one hand was clutching the wood, and kicked it away.

I Chased after the Quaffle, and we set back up at the center of the Pitch while Murphy yelled out something to Oliver.

"Run the Trebuchet!" Tony called from the stands. "Hayley, Connor!"

As Jack bulleted down the pitch, I, making sure to use my back, aimed the ball at Connor and then started weaving around, dodging away from invisible opponents. Connor and I spiraled around each other in almost a dance before Tony shouted, "GO!"

Focusing fiercely on Connor's position, I zoomed forward and grabbed his arms, spinning him around in a half circle and grabbing the Quaffle from him.

Connor and I locked eyes as we swung around again, and he grinned for half a beat before I released the Quaffle, and he kicked it, sending it soaring across the pitch.

"Ruddy brilliant," Connor said as we both watched to see Jack catch the ball.

I beamed back, but my smile faded when Oliver dove and caught the ball. Muttering to myself, I joined Connor as we flew back to the middle of the pitch.

Oliver threw the ball in the air, angled back, and roundhouse kicked it so hard that it flew over our heads, and I had to go flying after it.

Back in triangle position, Connor, Jack, and I began a series of complicated passing patterns as we zoomed down the pitch. I felt like an insect as we darted back and forth, changing positions and altering altitudes, as the Quaffle flew back and forth seamlessly between us.

Connor threw me the Quaffle, and I flicked it over my shoulder to Jack, who zoomed toward the center hoop.

I watched as he raised his arm to score when Oliver collided into him.

"JACK!" Connor gasped as he zoomed forward to steady him on his broom.

After my brain processed what had just happened, I rushed forward to help Connor. "Is he okay?" I demanded. "If he's not bleeding…" I began but then lost my voice.

Connor moved slightly, and I grimaced when I saw the blood gushing from Jack's nose. I immediately began to try to stifle it with my sleeve.

"Bi'balrigh'!" Jack insisted as he tried to remove my hands while maintaining his shaky balance. "Bon'tmwobby."

"We should get him down," Connor said calmly, moving Jack's arm around so that he could support him better. "The mediwizards should have a look at him. I think that nose is broken."

Jack groaned.

"Yes, we are all saddened by the loss of your boyish cha—"

I stopped listening because Oliver had flown over. The sight of his stupid face enraged me.

"What the fuck is your problem?" I yelled as I zoomed towards him.

"My problem?"

"You could have killed him!"

"Don't you worry, McCoy," he spat. "Your boyfriend is fine. You can both go back to being blissfully happy together."

I rammed my broom forward and hurled my shoulder into his stomach, nearly sending him off his broom.

He groaned as he unsuccessfully tried to dodge me. "What's it to you, Wood? You have no right! No say! I'm trying to be happy! Stop getting in the bloody way. What's it to you?" I screeched as I drew back, ready to finally punch him in the nose.

"Oliver!" screamed Bridget, who had finally joined the scene. I looked up and was momentarily stunned by the fear etched onto her beautiful face.

"WOOD! McCOY" screamed Fletcher, positively spitting with rage. His face was a deep red as he flew towards us, shaking his fist. "Get out of the way, McCoy. I'm going to kill him."

I looked back up at Oliver. He was a few paces behind me now; all the blood had drained from his face.

"WHAT THE RUDDY HELL WERE YOU THINKING? I COULD HAVE YOU TAKEN OFF THE TEAM FOR THIS!"

Oliver just shook his head, his gaze frozen on Jack, as though too overwhelmed to pay much mind to Fletcher's conniption fit.

"FUCK, OLIVER! WHY DID YOU RAM INTO HIM? That's for opponents, not teammates! I don't care if they get injured."

"I—I was trying to block the goal. I saw him, and it just happened. I wasn't thinking."

"WELL THAT MUCH IS CLEAR, CAPTAIN!" bellowed Fletcher, who muttered the title so viciously I envisioned him driving a sword through Oliver's kidneys. "O'REILLY! McCOY! Get him down to the ground! I want him patched up before we play the Kenmare Kestrels tomorrow!"

Helping Connor get Jack to the ground, I tried not to hear the things Fletcher was screeching furiously.

By the time we reached the grass, Tony was already there waiting for us with a mediwitch. Des, looking every ounce as livid as Fletcher was, landed shortly after us. A moment later, Bryce, whose face was devoid of all laughter, rushed forward to help Jack stand up.

Bridget hovered a few feet above the grass; a Snitch struggled in her dainty hand.

Three hundred feet above us, one resounding word thundered through the pitch: LAPS.

I was still thinking about the brutality of it all Friday night after we had barely managed to defeat the Kestrals due to a lucky catch from Bridget.

I could not get the image of Oliver purposefully driving into Jack out of my mind. Of course, Jack was fine. The mediwitch patched him up in less than five minutes, and very good-naturedly, he turned to me and asked if his nose still looked crooked.

Even after I had showered and was ready to leave, Oliver was still zipping around in large circles about the pitch.

All day my teammates had questioned why Oliver had done it.

"He's cracking up," insisted Bryce. "Gone mental, he has. Too much time spent alone with his playbook in the dark."

Connor, meanwhile, chose to believe that Oliver had just acted on instinct. "Sometimes, you get into a groove. It used to happen to Dom sometimes. Jack's a strong kid. He can take it."

Bridget teetered between fretting over Jack and Oliver in turns. "Really! I can't believe Ollie would do such a thing! I know Fletcher has brought it up with Daddy! He's even talking of probation! He's been such a mess lately. I think he needs more sleep. I'm so worried about him, but he won't even talk to me anymore! But are you sure Jack's nose will be all right? He has such nice bone structure!"

"If he does something like that again, he'll be the one with broken bones," was all Des had to say on the matter.

Jack seemed to just want to forget it and pleaded with everyone not to mention it anymore. "Please stop, guys. Oliver found me after practice and apologized. It was probably my fault, anyway. He was just doing his job. I should have dodged. It's more my lack of proper reflexes than anything."

I very much wanted to believe Jack and adhere to his assurances that everything was going to be all right. Only, I could not quite shake the overwhelming feeling of foreboding that arrested my brain, especially after Jack found me before leaving the pitch for the night.

"Hey," I greeted him as I reached out to give him a hug. "Is your nose okay?" I leaned over to finger the freshly healed skin along the bridge of his nose, eliciting a hissing noise. "Sorry," I apologized. "Still tender?"

"It'll heal," he promised. "Besides, I've got a scar now. Isn't that neat?"

Something about his tone seemed wrong. He sounded like he could do with a few shots; I had never seen him appear so distraught. "Jack, are you okay?

"Hayley," he began as he started walking towards an empty part of the pitch, away from the usual paths of transport. "You know when you're about to die you're supposed to see a blinding light or your life flash before your eyes?"

"Jack, you weren't going to die up there! Connor or I would have caught up with you if you fell and the mediwizards—"

"Well, yes, Hayley, but, regardless, that didn't happen for me," he interrupted, not waiting politely for me to finish as he would normally do. "All I saw was a flash of what I haven't done yet—like a list. There's so much I want to do beyond Quidditch, you know? I want to see the world! Maybe go someplace where it isn't always raining or snowing. And I want to start playing music again. I miss it. Sometimes I forget how much."

"That's great, Jack," I said slowly. "But what about Quidditch?"

"But, mostly," Jack continued. "I want to get married and have a family. I reckon I've always wanted that, you know? Someone to grow old with."

I thought of my dad, alone in his flat. "Yeah, that does sound nice."

Jack stopped walking and turned to face me with a very earnest expression. "So today I want to start doing those things that I've always wanted to do. So I've decided that this is the first thing I should do. Hayley?"

I squirmed but tried not to show it. "Er, yeah?"

"Is this—you and me—ever going to be something more? Cause I really like you, Hayley, but sometimes—a lot of the time, actually—I get the feeling that you just want to go back to being friends. Like when we—you know— kiss, sometimes—well most of the time really—I feel like you're just placating me. And if that's the case, then this has got to end before I get too invested. I'm a romantic, Hayley. I want breakfast-in-bed and long walks talking about everything and nothing and that I'd-die-for-you kind of passion. I want it all. So just tell me. Is that what you want too? What I mean to say is, do you see us going anywhere?"

"Jack," I began as I moved my gaze to the right of his face so I did not have to look into his eyes. "No," I answered weakly. "I'm sorry, Jack."

Jack smiled tightly. "It's okay. I think I always sort of figured that. Girls don't normally feel that way about me. Not that I want to sound pathetic or anything of the kind!" he added in a rush. "My mum always hates it when people fish for compliments. Right, well, just, you know, thank you for being honest."

His graciousness only made me feel worse.

"I really wanted to like you that way, Jack," I told him quickly. "You know? That lovey-dovey way you described. I never meant to hurt you."

He reached out to move some of my wet hair back behind my ear. "I know you didn't, Hayley. I think that's why I like you so much."

And then, feeling completely awful, I said something that sounded stupid to even my own ears. "We'll still be friends, though, right?"

Jack smiled genuinely this time. "Of course," he promised as he leaned over to kiss my forehead.

I frowned and oddly felt close to tears as I pulled him into a hug. I knew it was the right thing to do for us, but I still felt sad letting him go.

"I had fun being your girlfriend, Jack. You're probably the best bloke I know."

He blushed and then tried to stammer away my compliment as we walked out of the pitch.

"And I just don't know what to do," I complained as I recounted the conversation and the rest of the day's events to Nora while we sat on the couch. I squeezed a lumpy pillow against my chest and pouted.

"Oh, Hayley," said Nora with a laugh. "I always imagined the day when you would have boy trouble. I just never figured it would take so long."

I rolled my eyes and threw the pillow at her face.

"I'm serious! How you escaped from it all those years at Hogwarts, I'll never know!"

"Well, it's caught up with me now," I grumbled.

"Yes, I suppose it has."

"Tell me I did the right thing."

Nora laughed, and I scowled at her. "What? You're about to be married. Doesn't that make you an expert with this crap?"

"Nobody is an expert in love, Hayley. It's the most mental business there is. No one can tell you whether you've made the right decision because you're the only one who knows how you feel. Was I happy that you were dating Jack? Yes, mainly because I didn't want you to go to my wedding without a date. But, even though you've broken it off with him, I'm far from being too cross about one extra plate of chicken—or salmon, we haven't decided yet."

"Pick steak," I told her.

"The point is, _lapushka_, I just want to see you happy. I know I've been on your case for ages about getting a boyfriend."

I gave her a look, and she chuckled.

"Okay, and ages and ages. But, truthfully, you've never really needed one. I need Carter. He takes care of me, makes me feel whole. I've always had to jump from boyfriend to boyfriend. I couldn't handle the single life, but, you, Hayles, you've never needed a bloke in your life to go on. You know exactly who you are without someone else defining you. You've always been so independent. I expect it's because you grew up with so many men; you don't need any more. I think it's what I admire most about you. You're strong, Hayley."

"I better be, because it's going to take some Quaffle-sized balls to figure this mess out."

Chortling, Nora wrapped her arms around my shoulders, enveloping me in her warm scent of baked goods.

I relaxed into her soft embrace and sat back as I contemplated what to do. I thought about Jack, who made me think of faithful Labradors and strawberry Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. As much as I liked Jack and how bad it felt to hurt him, somehow I just knew that he was not the one—even though I doubted that there was such a thing as soul mates. There was only passion and those who inspired it.

So, regardless of what else might happen now that the deed was done, I realized that I did make the right decision and I really had needed to break things off with him because it was only fair. Jack deserved that much.

Nora and I sat together as I persuaded her to put aside my woes and talk about herself. I listened to her tales of the patients she dealt with that day: a woman who had been cursed by her ex-husband, a man who had listened to a record sent to him anonymously and could now only communicate in operatic vibrato, and a young boy who performed accidental magic and gave himself an elephant trunk.

Then, she fretted about the wedding plans. Carter really wanted to have the wedding in July because that was the month in which they first met each other, but Nora was still unsure if they could get everything ready in time. Between his job as a Herbologist and her ceaseless shifts at the hospital—not to mention the time she needed to devote to studying to pass her final exams—they had yet to even purchase invitations.

Though, they had made some progress. Nora had actually contacted some of the people Bridget had mentioned; apparently, as soon as she mentioned Cooke, they had all been extremely accommodating.

I enjoyed listening to her Russian accent fade in and out with the steady rainfall outside providing background music as my head drooped and our tiny sitting room turned fuzzier and fuzzier with every fading second in which my eyelids inched closed.

I started when I heard the buzzer go off and wiped away a bit of drool forming along the bottom of my lip. "Whozzat?"

"I dunno," said Nora, rising off the cushions into a sitting position. "I reckon it's probably Carter."

"You should go get it then," I told her as I took advantage of the extra available space she had just left unoccupied by stretching out my legs. "I'm too sleepy."

Grumbling Russian swear words under her breath, Nora got up and disappeared through the kitchen.

I yawned and burrowed myself further into the sofa in an attempt to return to my hazy, right-before-sleep stage until Nora called my name.

"There's someone here for you," she told me with an odd expression on her face. "I'll be in my room," she added before disappearing.

Pulling myself off the sofa, I sighed and blearily wiped the sleep from my eyes while trying to figure out what to say to Jack.

I did not want to hurt his feelings, but, at the same time, I wanted to avoid giving him any false hope that might make him think I was rethinking our decision. Gritting my teeth in preparation, I entered the kitchen.

Only, it was not Jack Copeland waiting for me by the cabinets.

"Oliver," I breathed, flabbergasted as I observed how very large he looked in our tiny kitchen. It seemed like his shoulders were as wide as the doorways would allow. "What are you doing here?"

He took a step closer, and I noticed that his hair was still damp, either from having just taken a shower or being out in the rain pounding against the windows.

When he did not answer, the shock of seeing him began to fade, and I was left feeling tremendously irritated with him. "Well?" I pressed, folding my arms across my chest.

"We need to talk," he said finally.

"All right. Start talking then."

He opened his mouth to start speaking and then closed it before balling his hands into fists at his sides and pacing around the kitchen table.

"Your passes have been really suffering lately. This afternoon I noticed you used your elbow four times alone. And yesterday! You were trying to avoid a Bludger, and so you ducked and then tried to throw anyway. Your balance was completely off, and it missed Connor by a few meters. If it had been a real match, that would have been an easy interception. It's just sloppy flying, and you can't afford to be playing so shoddily months before the Euro Cup. Oh! And last week, when you were working on your reverse passes—"

"Oliver!" I cut him off through gritted teeth. He stopped speaking at once, and I could feel anger surging through me like the blood in my veins. It was not merely that he was criticizing my Chasing abilities—which was incredibly affronting—it was that he was so openly revealing how closely he had been watching me.

All that time I thought he had been ignoring me, and apparently he had just been having a jolly time cataloguing my faults.

"You think," I spat acidly, "you can just come into my home and insult me? I wouldn't care if you were the ruddy head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Nobody belittles me like this."

"Hayley, I—"

"No!" I cut him off loudly. "How dare you? You've got to stop doing this to me, Oliver! You're always there watching me. I thought I was going bonkers at first, but now you've just admitted it. Why can't you leave me alone? Are you having fun? Is this all a game to you?"

"What? Hayley—"

"Cause I've had enough," I told him as I rounded around the table to wag my finger at his face. "I refuse to let you jerk me around. You might be my Captain, but you're sure as hell not my keeper."

"Well, actually—" And the bloke had the nerve to smile at me.

"Shut up! That's not what I meant! God, you're so bloody irritating!" I was positively livid, and I felt the uncontrollable urge to do something so I cocked my arm back and then punched him in the nose.

The smash of cartilage against my fist felt so good. There was no blood, and I didn't hear anything break so, breathing heavily, I pulled back to punch him again.

This time, however, Oliver captured my fist with his hands before it reached his face. He pushed it down to my side and pulled my hips into his.

And then we were kissing.

Dimly, I registered that his hands were digging into the loopholes of my jeans as my own clawed at his chest.

I could not aptly describe how it felt like to be kissed by Oliver Wood. When we were fourth years at school, Nora began compiling a large collection of trashy Muggle romance novels. In spite of my firm protestations, she would delight in reading aloud from the steamier passages whenever she really wanted to annoy me. It was always the same insipid chatter of a strapping male and some brainless bint with fireworks and heat and bloody sparks.

Snogging Oliver was a bit like that.

As his fingers gripped my sides harder, I groaned as I realized how long I had been waiting for this and just how badly I wanted him.

However, moments later, I heard my name being called.

Opening my eyes, I pulled away from him and brought my hands down to my sides; Oliver, looking more attractive than I had ever seen him look, offered me a shifty grin, which I could not help but return before turning towards the noise.

My grin disappeared when I saw Nora.

She was clutching a piece of parchment in her hand; tears streamed down her face.

"Nora? What is it?" I demanded.

"Hayley," she choked out. "It's from St. Mungo's. Your dad was just admitted. He's had a massive heart attack."

* * *

><p>AN:

Greetings! Danica here. Tis great to see you at this next installment of SAAS. Hope you enjoyed it! So, reader challenge: REVIEW. And in your review, pray do tell your favorite parts/quotes, your favorite AVPM/AVPS song, your comfort food (Kraft macaroni for me), and who you want to win the US Tennis Open (go Roddick, Isner, Nadal, and Federer!).

Molly says her roommate legitimately asked her if she was behind Lord_Voldemort7's tweets, because of his fascination with Buffy and Robert Downey Jr. And also that she is a Slytherin. Wannabe Gryffindor. Possible Ravenclaw. Not a what the heck is a Hufflepuff. (She's a hater. Go lovers of family and friends Hufflepuffs!)

Thanks again for reading and please review! Till next time!


	10. Sloth Grip Roll

_SAAS INSTANT REPLAY:_

_Opening my eyes, I pulled away from him and brought my hands down to my sides; Oliver, looking more attractive than I had ever seen him look, offered me a shifty grin, which I could not help but return before turning towards the noise._

_My grin disappeared when I saw Nora._

_She was clutching a piece of parchment in her hand; tears streamed down her face._

_"Nora? What is it?" I demanded._

_"Hayley," she choked out. "It's from St. Mungo's. Your dad was just admitted. He's had a massive heart attack."_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Ten<strong>

**Sloth Grip Roll**

* * *

><p>By the time we reached the dummy at Purge and Dowse, Ltd., my stomach was beginning to settle a little.<p>

After Nora delivered the news, I scanned the letter, which said chicken shit in a very eloquent, professional way—not that I could read well because the ink all seemed to blur together.

Nora gathered our coats as I stuffed my feet into an old pair of boots, and we rushed out of our flat as Oliver blathered out assurances that he would let Fletcher know where I was the next day at practice.

Not trusting either of us to Apparate, we had chosen to flag down the Knight Bus. Nora had suggested it because I seemed incapable of speech. Midway through our travel, either the stress or the bumpiness of the ride caused me to throw up into a rubbish bin.

At least there was a purpose for purchasing the toothbrush.

Nora, fretting over me, rubbed soothing circles along my back and handled the procedure to get into the hospital so expertly that we were standing in the reception area of St. Mungo's before I had fully registered what was going on.

In fact, I was swaying a bit, and likely would have kept colliding into things if Nora did not have a firm grasp on my arm.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the room was quite crowded. Among the patients waiting in rickety chairs, I spotted a woman with a nasty cut along her arm that was oozing green pus, a bloke whose face was covered in dog hair, and a snowman that was leaving puddles on the carpet. Idly, I wondered where their fathers were.

Regardless of the queue of five people waiting to speak to the Welcome Witch, Nora grabbed my hand and led me to the front.

"Anastasia! Quick! We need to know where they've put Sean McCoy. It's urgent."

The witch behind the desk popped her gum and gave Nora a very peeved expression. "Yeah, yeah, a matter of life and death."

I lunged forward—either to wring her neck or gouge her eyes, I was not sure—but Nora grabbed my arms to hold me back.

"Anastasia, now, or I will let her go."

"Second Floor. Lupin Ward. You're looking for Room 212."

"And just for that I won't tell everyone what you've been doing with Hans Rickman from Magical Maintenance."

Nora, nearly running to keep pace with my strides, guided me to the right section of the hospital. She was still holding my hand; I was expecting little half moon marks all over my skin.

Once we entered the correct ward, Nora led us over to where the assistants were working to find out more information. A Healer in lime green robes told us that he would tell Healer Baccari that we had arrived.

Meanwhile, we sat down in a small waiting room that was obviously decorated to make the occupants feel more at ease but only served to put me more on edge. The blue walls left me feeling claustrophobic. My hands were clammy, and sweat was forming on my forehead.

I gripped the armrests of my chair tightly and sat very still as I listened to the second hand on Nora's watch tick.

"Miss McCoy?"

I shot out of my chair and approached Healer Baccari, who was looking very somber, as though he had just swallowed some Draught of Living Death instead of his usual gillywater.

"Healer Baccari," I greeted him as I reached out to shake his hand. It felt so different from the many times I had done it in his office for Dad's appointments.

"Hayley," he replied softly.

I crossed my arms over my chest and ground my teeth together. "It's not good, is it?"

He frowned and diverted his gaze.

"Give it to me straight—no lime, no mixer."

"Hayley, your father has had a massive heart attack. By the time the medi-wizards arrived at the bar, he had already stopped breathing for over two minutes. There's a lot of tearing of the aortic valve, and we think that his left ventricle might have some significant damage."

I glanced over at Nora, who was now wearing a frown similar to that belonging to Healer Baccari. "So what does that mean? Is he going to be okay?"

"It means that his condition is highly critical. Right now, we're working on stopping the bleeding. This is more of a Muggle ailment, so we're still struggling to fix this magically. We may need to get Augustus Pye for a consult to help us with open-heart surgery."

"Cut into his chest?" I whispered, more to myself than to him.

"Yes."

I nodded dumbly. "But he'll be okay, right? He isn't going to—" My voice faltered.

"We're going to do the very best we can."

"Can I see him?" I asked.

"I'm sorry, Hayley, but that's not possible right now. We need to keep working on running more tests, so we have him magically sedated."

"When will he wake up?"

"Not for a while. We have more Potion waiting just in case, however, to avoid a situation in which he would go into shock."

"Right. That would be bad."

"Hayley, is there anyone you would like us to contact for you?"

I blinked up at him, seeing only the vivid lime green of his robes. "My brothers."

"Yes, we've sent them owls. Hopefully they will arrive shortly. Miss Webb, would you like to assist in the proceedings? We could use an extra set of hands."

"Of course," Nora answered shakily as her grip on my hand tightened painfully. "I'll be with you shortly."

Healer Baccari nodded and then clapped a hand on my shoulder. "I've got to be going. Try to stay positive."

"Wait!" I blurted out. "Isn't there anything I can do?"

Likely sensing my desperation, Healer Baccari turned to look back at me and offer me a sad smile. "You can sit and wait for your brothers, Hayley."

"Thank you," I called to him as an afterthought as he disappeared behind a large set of double doors.

Nora led me back over to the chairs and helped me sit down. "Are you sure you'll be okay waiting here by yourself?"

I nodded. "I've got to wait for my brothers. You go. Take care of Dad."

Nora reached over to give me a tight hug. "I love you," she told me as she kissed my forehead.

"Love you too," I mumbled back.

And then Nora had left, as well, and I was all alone in the waiting room.

I pulled my knees up to my chest and sat curled into a ball for several minutes; only the random passing of workers in green robes altered my static view of faded blue walls and poorly drawn landscape portraits.

My coat was awkwardly rumpled, making it a bit uncomfortable to sit, but I did not get up to fix it.

I had no sense of time because it seemed to be moving both very quickly and laboriously slowly. I kept track of my heartbeats, wondering if or when Dad's heart would ever lub-dub again.

Pounding footsteps broke the silence of the closed ward, and I saw Brendan running towards me. He was still wearing flannel pajama bottoms and slippers underneath his long jacket.

"Oh, Hayley," he said as he pulled me into a fierce hug.

Though at first I wondered how and when I had stood up, I shut my brain off, closed my eyes, and took comfort in his presence.

"How's Dad?" he asked immediately.

"Not good," I replied weakly. "Healer Baccari says they might have to cut his chest open."

The little color in Brendan's face left him. "Cut it open?" he repeated. Then, suddenly, he was sinking into the chair I had been sitting on, and his head was in his hands. "Oh, God."

He echoed this sentiment several more times.

I sat down in the chair beside his and held his hand. "It'll be okay," I told him feebly. "The letter said somebody in the bar wrote the hospital. We're lucky he was having a long night. If he had been alone in his flat…They say the extra time always helps."

Brendan nodded. "Can we see him?"

"Not yet. He's still getting worked on. Nora's there, though."

"Nora's here?"

"Yeah, she came with me."

Brendan tightened his grip on my hand. "That's good. I'm glad you weren't alone."

I looked over to see tears silently streaming down his face and remembered when I was six and Brendan had mocked me for crying after I fell off my broom. "Only babies cry," he had told me, and I had tattled on him to Dad.

Today I chose just to sit quietly with him.

Collin arrived shortly afterwards. He asked similar questions as Brendan had and then took the empty seat on my left.

Unlike Brendan and me, Collin seemed to find comfort in talking ad nauseam. He kept going through what little knowledge he had of Healing and bits and pieces he remembered about Dad's condition from Healer appointments.

The chatter made me feel tenser, if anything, but I did not want to tell him to shut up.

"Dad will be fine," Collin repeated for the third time since he had arrived. "You know Dad. 'We take down the competition or we knock 'em down.' He'll get through this. It's just his…heart."

I gave Collin my other hand, and then he was quiet until Ayden arrived with frantic eyes and snow in his hair.

"I'm sorry!" he apologized as soon as he came up to us. "I tried to get here as fast as I could. Claire and I had to take care of the kids. She's bringing them here soon. How is he?"

I tried to answer, but I could not do it a third time.

"He's still in critical condition," Brendan explained when he noticed my lack of speech. "They're trying the usual potions, but they might have to use a Muggle operation."

"Have you seen him? Does he look all right?"

"No one's been allowed in. Hayley spoke with Healer Baccari."

Ayden nodded. "Right. Course. That's good. Means they're working extra hard on him. When will we have an update?"

"We don't know."

Ayden sighed and pulled over a chair to turn our row into a lopsided circle.

I did not have any more hands to give him, but our knees were touching. There was something a bit soothing about having Ayden there. Nearing thirty and already showing a bit of a gut, Ayden seemed so much more like an adult than any of us did.

But when he turned away to wipe away the tears from his eyes, I knew that he was not any better equipped to deal with this than anyone else was, no matter his age.

I tried not to think about how Ayden would become the oldest male if anything happened to Dad.

Ayden wore a fine gold wristwatch that our granddad had given him for his seventeenth birthday so the silence was once again filled with the ticking of seconds.

It must have been at least three in the morning, but none of us fell asleep. I seemed to be paralyzed; it was as though my body had forgotten how to function normally because it was frozen in a state of gripping anxiety.

The last time I had felt like this, my mum had died. As I remembered those first few hours after her death—the most tremendous grief I had ever known—I felt very small, as though I had once again become eight years old.

Aneurysms were tricky things. They just happened. Healers say that it is almost impossible to know that you have one. You can be completely healthy one day and then in a funeral home the next.

The day before Mum died, she had been teaching me how to make chocolate chip cookies. I had been focused on eating the dough when she was not looking. I never learned how to make them properly.

Dad had been the one to tell me. He came into my room one morning with tears in his eyes. I had never seen him cry before.

I remembered that I began to cry before he even told me what had happened just because he seemed so sad.

Mum had died instantly. There had been none of this waiting.

I was a young girl with a Mum and a family, and then I was a young girl, forced into a black dress and uncomfortable shoes, getting gawked at by grownups.

I lost track of the time again, but at some point I could no longer abide sitting. I got up and started pacing up and down the small stretch or corridor, never going out of sight of the small waiting room.

Ayden took my seat, and the three of them watched me pace.

I was sitting down and tapping my foot against the leg of Collin's chair when I felt a hand on my knee. I looked up and saw that Nora, clad in green robes, was walking toward us.

Immediately, I jumped to my feet, and my brothers all joined me a second later.

"Nora!" I said as I closed the gap between us. "What's happening? Did the surgery go okay?"

Nora smiled sadly. "The surgery hasn't started yet_, rodimy_."

"What?" yelped Brendan. "But it's been over an hour! Did something happen?"

"He is okay, right?" Ayden pestered.

"Did something go wrong?" demanded Collin.

"Guys!" I hissed. "Let her talk."

Nora glanced at me gratefully before sighing. "His condition hasn't changed. We've been prepping him for surgery. I'm sorry. Even with magic, these things can take a long time. Plus, the hospital is pretty busy tonight. Healer Baccari has been running all over the place. A lot of patients to treat. I know it's hard, but you just have to be patient."

"Will you be back once the surgery's done?" asked Brendan.

She nodded. "Yes, we'll let you know how it goes," she promised as tears welled up in her eyes. "I'm sorry. Your dad's always been so wonderful to me and to think of what's happening to him—"

I reached out to hug her but Ayden beat me to it. "Thank you, Nora. We appreciate everything that you're doing."

Collin hugged her next, and Brendan kissed her on the cheek. They left to give us a bit of privacy.

"Are you sure you can handle this, Nora?" I asked as I watched her wipe tears from her cheek. "I mean, isn't it against hospital policy to treat people you know?"

"Well, yes," agreed Nora. "But Healer Baccari has never strictly followed the rules. Besides, I can't not do it. He's—he's—he's—your dad."

I gave her a tight hug. "Please take care of him," I whispered to her.

"I'll do my best," she promised before releasing me. "I'm sorry, but I've got to—"

"Go ahead," I urged her. "You go fix him."

When Nora's green robes disappeared behind the heavy double doors, my body felt laden down with unease once more. I sat back down and pulled my knees to my chest.

Brendan was crying again. I idly wondered when my own tears would start and then resolved not to cry unless the worst happened.

In about an hour's time, we still had no news, but Carter arrived with breakfast.

Collin and Brendan picked at muffins; Ayden did not touch any food but was downing cups of coffee like he was trying to sober up after the worst hangover.

"You should eat something, Hayley," Carter urged me from the chair to my left. "C'mon, you're always hungry," he joked lamely as he held up a chocolate muffin to my nose.

More to ease his concern than anything, for my stomach had all but disappeared from my consciousness, I nibbled on the edge of the muffin. The familiar taste of chocolate chips was a great comfort. I sighed and sank deeper into my chair.

"Thanks," I mumbled to him.

"Of course," he replied. "How's our girl doing?"

"She's okay. I talked to her a bit before. She's in surgery with him now."

Carter nodded and was silent for a bit before speaking again. "You know, your dad never liked me."

I almost laughed. "Yeah, well, Nora's like his other daughter. Just be glad he doesn't know about your sleepovers."

"Your dad's going to be fine, Hayley. He's got Nora looking after him."

My stomach lurched, and I put the muffin down.

More food arrived later when Ayden's wife Claire showed up with the kids. Again, I was forced to pick at something, but I didn't really taste it.

Carter had to leave to go back to work, but Brendan's fiancée Melissa and Collin's latest girlfriend whose name I was pretty sure was Samantha came.

My brothers sat with their respective significant others as I sat alone in my chair. After a few minutes, Ayden's daughter Hannah came up to place her head against my side.

"Aunt Hayley," she mumbled into my arm, her soft hair rubbing against my skin. "I'm bored, but Mummy said we can't play."

"I'm sorry, love."

"This is taking forever. I want to go home."

"Hopefully soon we'll all be able to, Hannah."

Our conversation had attracted Sarah and Billy to us. "Aunt Hayley," Billy began, his chubby cheeks wobbling in concentration as he tried to form the right words. "Is Granddad gonna go to fishy heaven?"

"What?"

"Our fish Lucky died last week," Hannah, the eldest of the three explained. "And Mummy said it went to fishy heaven."

"Like how Grandmum McCoy went to human heaven before we was borned," whispered Billy.

"Your granddad isn't going to need to go to fishy heaven or human heaven because he's going to be just fine," I promised them as I picked up baby Sarah and put her in my lap. "Just fine."

One of Claire's sisters came to pick up the kids some time later. I only really noticed that she had arrived when she took Sarah out of my arms.

I was staring at the fabric of my jeans along my thighs and observing how the faded material seemed to form animal shapes when I heard footsteps.

We all stood up to hear what Healer Baccari had to say.

"We think the surgery went okay," he began.

I felt my chest relax until a new worry sprang up in my heart.

"Think?" questioned Collin, voicing my concerns. "Shouldn't you know?"

Healer Baccari sighed, and I noticed how exhausted he looked. I wondered when the last time he had slept was. "While we were able to repair the damage to his heart during the surgery, he hasn't woken up yet, despite the potion we were giving him."

"What?" gasped Brendan.

"It could just be shock. Your father's body has been through a great deal of stress. That kind of trauma isn't fixed easily. I have Nora watching over him now and taking his vitals. His breathing and brainwave activity is normal, and, miraculously, his heart has been giving us a pretty steady rhythm."

"So when will he wake up?" asked Ayden.

"We're not sure," answered Healer Baccari regrettably. "I had a case like this years and years ago. Young boy, still in school, a coma for nearly two years. He woke up, though."

"Yeah, but will Dad?" pressed Collin.

"I hope he will. It's harder in cases like these when the patient is so much older and has been through so much trauma," he sighed and the rubbed a hand over his face wearily. "I have a very high regard for your father. I'm sorry, but it seems that all we can do is wait for him to regain consciousness. We're going to try a series of potions that might help. I'll send Nora out with any news."

"Thank you, sir," I told him.

"I only wish I could do more, Hayley," he offered before shaking my hand firmly.

When he left, my brothers turned into their respective partners, who helped them go sit back down. Alone, I began to pace the floor again.

I only stopped when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Expecting to see Nora or Healer Baccari, I turned around quickly and found Oliver.

"What are you doing here?" I asked in surprise as a brief moment of coherency passed over me. "Shouldn't you be at practice? What time is it?"

"A quarter past two."

"Fletcher didn't cancel did he?"

"No," Oliver answered as he reached up to rub his neck. "I, uh, left practice early."

"You left practice early?"

"How's your dad?"

My shoulders slumped and Oliver reached over to give me a hug without any more questions. His presence—the burly shoulders, warmth, and faint smell of grass and perspiration—soothed me beyond anything else, and I felt my knees jerk as the stress of the day weighed upon me.

Gently, Oliver guided me back over to the chairs, and we sat down together.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Collin and Brendan exchange smirks when Oliver took my hand, but when I looked back, their expressions had morphed back into worried stares.

Oliver and I did not talk, but it was enough just to have him there.

The boys' significant others left for a bit to go get food, but Oliver stayed and was waiting with me when Nora came hobbling toward us.

"You should sleep," I told her as I offered her my chair. "You look like shit, love."

Nora chuckled. "You seen a mirror recently, _zaichik_?"

"How's Dad?" Collin asked.

"Sleepy," Nora answered as she stifled her own yawn. "But otherwise doing much better. Healer Baccari is staying positive. His tests show a lot of improvement. They might need to go back in later when his heart is a bit stronger to do some more repairs, but that can wait."

"Assuming he wakes up," muttered Brendan.

"Yes," agreed Nora solemnly before rearranging her features into a smile. "But we've been able to move him into a normal patient's room. He's down the hall in 212. Healer Baccari said you can go visit him if you like."

I immediately connected eyes with Ayden as we silently agreed to go at once. "Take care of Nora," I requested of Oliver, who nodded and sat down beside Nora, who gave me an inquisitive look before yawning once more.

Once inside the small room, my brothers and I stood awkwardly around the bed.

Dad was wrapped up in bandages and a polka-dotted nightgown. His face looked pale and fragile.

I listened to the heart monitor as it beeped, grateful for the sound.

I settled around the rails at the base of his bed, and Ayden took Dad's hand as Brendan and Collin flanked his side. If we had been playing Quidditch, it would have been a great defensive strategy.

Ayden suddenly started laughing—seriously breaking into guffaws so rich that tears leaked from his eyes.

"What?" Brendan asked.

Ayden struggled to catch his breath as he wiped the moisture from his cheeks. "You remember those first few months after Mum died when the casseroles people made us had all gone and Dad had to start cooking? Remember his shepherd's pie? And how he forgot to put the layer of crust on the bottom?"

"Oh God!" exclaimed Brendan, laughing, as well. "He was so proud of that damn pie, and then the whole bloody thing fell on the table when he tried to dish it out."

"Yeah," piped up Collin, "but at least that was better than when he made that cake for Hayley's birthday. You remember that, Hayles?"

I snorted. "I very nearly cut my throat on the eggshells. Merlin, that was a hopeless attempt at baking."

"That's why Dad always says—what is it that he always says?"

Collin snapped his fingers as he remembered. "'God sometimes takes too much away from yeh, but at least he brings you Ellenore Webb's brownies to make up for it.'"

"But worse than the cooking," mused Brendan. "What about Dad when we went to our first World Cup. You remember? When the Irish beat Bulgaria?"

I laughed. "Yep. We missed all that Death Eater business after the match cause Dad was so drunk we didn't even make it back to the tents."

"That's right!" exclaimed Ayden with a smile. "God, I remember now. Blimey, was he knackered."

"He kept shouting the family motto, remember? If you can't take down the competition—"

"You knock 'em down," we all finished along with Collin.

And then the laughter ceased, as though we could all sense the room being deflated.

I looked down on Dad's pale face and the blue and purple bruises around his eyes. He had missed a chunk of stubble on his neck shaving that morning.

"He's going to be okay," Ayden announced, his hand still wrapped in Dad's.

I turned to stare at Dad's face, which looked eerily calm, as though he was having a sweet dream.

"He'll wake up soon. Isn't that what you always say, Dad? 'I'll sleep when I'm dead!'?"

Collin frowned and picked up Dad's other hand. "C'mon, Dad, wake up. You've got to. Don't you want to be there when Sam and I get married?"

"What?" asked Ayden.

"You're getting married? What the hell, Coll? Couldn't let me and Melissa have our chance?"

"Oh, shut it, Brendan. You're such a girl—scared that I'll steal your spotlight. I haven't even ruddy asked her yet. I just thought, well, with everything going on as of late, I reckon I really love her, you know? So what's the point of putting it off?

"Well, shit."

"Yeah."

"What's this one's name again? Sharon?"

"Sam!"

"Dad's gonna have a bird when he finds out he missed this. He always thought you were a pain in the ass going from girl to girl."

"Wait till Dad finds out that our little Hayley has Oliver Wood showing up to hold her hand," interrupted Brendan as he gave me a shove.

"Oh yeah," agreed Collin. "Dad's gonna be pissed. I reckon he only liked that Jack fellow 'cause he knew the bloke was too polite to make any moves."

"Yeah, well, Dad can yell at me all he wants when he wakes up," I said defiantly as I tickled his toes in hope that it would suddenly cause him to stir.

I did not want to leave Dad's bedside, but eventually Healer Baccari had to ask us to go back to the waiting room so they could try a new batch of potions to try to get Dad to regain consciousness.

I kissed my Dad's forehead and whispered promises that hurt my heart to say aloud.

Oliver tried to get me to eat something, but I was not hungry so we just sat once more.

A new couple joined us in the room. They seemed worried, and I tried not to watch them to let them stress in peace. As the time ticked away, a Healer came out to talk to them, and they left with him, looking resplendent.

I sank lower in my chair.

Finally, after a few more hours, Healer Baccari came back out to talk to us. His shoulders did not look as slumped as usual, so I dared to hope that he had good news.

"Is he awake?" I asked.

"He's awake," he answered with a broad grin.

I let out a sigh and then shrieked as Collin barreled into me to pull me into a hug as Brendan and Ayden embraced beside us.

"How is he? He's okay, right?"

"Your father is doing very well, given the circumstances. He is still very weak, but with time, I am hopeful that he can make a full recovery. Hayley will just have to be sure to be a bit more forceful with his dietary restrictions, and he will not be able to be as active as before."

"Can we go see him?"

"He's been asking for you all," he replied with a sigh, "but I think it would be best if just family went in at first. One at a time, as well. We don't want to wear him out or cause him any unnecessary stress. His body is very tired. I expect he'll fall back to sleep soon."

"Sleep?" repeated Ayden. "Is that bad? Should we be worried?"

"No, no. It should be fine. Sleeping is normal, and we have the right potion now just in case we need to wake him up again if he can't do it on his own. Which one of you would like to see him first?"

"Age order!" declared Ayden.

"Sucks to be you, Hayles," sniggered Collin, looking completely ecstatic.

I rolled my eyes but could not help but feel elated, as though I was a balloon that had finally been untethered.

Nora came back to wait with us until it was my turn to go see Dad. She said that she had just sent an owl to Carter to let him know the good news and that no one should give her any potions to wake her up.

"I'll just prefer to sleep for ages if that's okay," she requested.

"Oh, shut it, Ellenore," I scolded her playfully.

"You're up, Hayles!" Collin called from down the hall.

Oliver gave my hand a little squeeze and then released me so that I could go see Dad.

I opened the door to his room gently and peeked my head in.

"Hayley," Dad's gruff voice called weakly. "Get in here, girl."

I grinned and then scurried into the room and sat on the chair next to his bed. "Dad!" I exclaimed as I flung my arms over his chest.

"Oi!"

"Oh, right! Sorry!" I apologized as I quickly pulled myself away. "Oh, God, Dad. I'm so glad you're awake. I was so worried about you."

He wheezed and sputtered, and I offered him a glass of water.

Tears welling up in his eyes, Dad pointed to a sign that said "NO WATER" and then continued to hack his lungs up.

Fretfully, I waited for him to finish, worrying that I should contact a Healer.

Finally, though, he stopped and then was able to speak in a breathy, disjointed voice, taking several pauses to catch his breath. "Yeah, well, this is what I got for not eating more of that rabbit food you were always trying to get me to have. Speaking o' which, you got any burgers around here? I'm starving." His voice wheezed and stilled and coughed, but he was speaking.

"Dad!"

"What? A dying man can't make a joke no more?" His voice was weak and soft; it was a struggle just to hear him so I pulled my chair even closer to his bed.

"Dad, you're not dying. Healer Baccari fixed you all up. You're gonna be fine."

"Yeah, well, if anything was to happen ter me, I never made no will or nuthin', but I want yer to have McCoy's."

"What? Dad! But I'm not the oldest. Ayden—"

"Don't love that pub as much as you do, Hayley. You're the one that's meant to have it. Screw tradition."

I laughed. "Dad, you love tradition."

"I do, don't I?" he said before coughing a bit.

"You okay?"

"Fine, fine," he tried to reassure me through some more hacking. "Just tired. You should go home, girl, and get some sleep. Have you been here all day?"

"I'm fine," I promised him. "I don't want to leave you."

"I'm going to be sleeping soon anyway. You should go home. Get some sleep. I don't want you to keel over in exhaustion 'cause o'me."

"It's really not that bad, I mean—"

"From what yer brothers told me, yer can have Wood take yer home."

I felt my cheeks redden. "Oh, um, well…"

Dad laughed and then started coughing again. "Go get some sleep, girl," he ordered when his coughing subsided. "I'll be here when you get back. Don't make me force yeh. I don't think I'm supposed to get out of bed."

Eventually, Dad fell back to sleep. Healer Baccari came in to check on him again and gave us all a very promising diagnosis and, like Dad, urged us all to go home and get some rest.

Carter came to collect a snoozing Nora from the waiting room and bring her back to our flat. Ayden and Claire left to go get the kids, and Brendan was going to go take Melissa home and catch up on some sleep. Collin said something vague about getting some food and then disappeared with Sam.

I was not ready to go completely home, but Oliver convinced me to leave the hospital, at least. I decided to go to McCoy's and spend the night—for somehow amidst all the waiting, a day had gone by—in Dad's flat. Oliver decided to accompany me to make sure I got there safely.

Upon entering McCoy's, I took a few moments to appreciate the space. I ran my fingers over the chipped green walls and deeply inhaled the smell of staling beer and peanuts. I smiled when I saw the hash marks scribbled onto the wall to note how tall my brothers and I had gotten beside the poster of the Irish International team.

Dad's copy of the paper was still open to the Quidditch section, even though it was strewn haphazardly over the vinyl seat of a booth against the far right wall.

I picked it up and then went left towards the bar. I skimmed my fingertips tenderly over the surface of the bar, taking in the scratches and gaps in the wood's gloss. I hoisted myself onto one of the bar stools and placed my head against the bar counter with a sigh. I reckoned Dad was right; I loved McCoy's—everything about it.

I sighed again. My shoulders collapsed until I was laying over the countertop. "It's been a long day," I murmured while my eyelids drooped.

"I'd say," agreed Oliver as he came up behind me and placed a hand along my neck. "You must be exhausted."

"Mmm," I agreed. "But I could do with a good drink."

Oliver chuckled and then slipped away, only to reappear behind the bar. He flipped a spare dishrag over his shoulder and then gave me a cheesy grin. "What'll it be, lass?"

I laughed. "Oliver, do you know anything about tending a bar? At all?"

"Well, no. But it can't be that hard. C'mon, 24, what's your drink?"

I sighed. "Whiskey," I told him. "I like whiskey."

"Whiskey it is then," agreed Oliver, who began to look around the various bottles lined up along the back.

"It's under the counter," I told him as I pushed myself over the bar and flipped upside down to point out the right place. "I keep my favorite kind down there for safekeeping."

Oliver grabbed two glasses and then poured us drinks.

"Leave the bottle," I advised him as I took the proffered glass. I swilled a bit back with a satisfied hiss. "God, that's good. I'm starving."

"Pouring I can do, but I really can't cook."

"Well, that makes two of us. Just bung me some peanuts, will yeh?"

Ravenous, I spent a few minutes concentrating on eating peanuts and drinking whiskey as my affection for Oliver grew. "Thanks for coming today," I said sleepily with a silly smile.

"I couldn't be at practice anymore," Oliver told me. "I just couldn't concentrate. Jack scored on me about ten times."

"Oh, Jack," I laughed. "He's a nice bloke. Good friend."

"Friend?" Oliver asked.

"Friend," I replied before pouring myself another glass. "Say, how'd you find me anyway? It was a closed ward. Nora didn't write you, too, did she?"

Oliver coughed into his glass. "No, I, uh, well, I autographed a piece of parchment for the Welcome Witch down in the lobby."

I must have found this very funny because I nearly fell off my stool laughing.

"You're drunk," Oliver told me.

I shook my head. "Nuh-uh. McCoy's don't get drunk!"

"They do when they haven't eaten anything all day."

We spent several minutes fighting over this and somehow our faces ended up very close together.

I found myself staring at his lips. "You kissed me," I recalled fondly, remembering that moment which now seemed so far away after all that had happened with Dad. The confusion of that act, combined with the conflicting reminders of Jack and Bridget, made my head spin.

"Yep."

"Why'd you do that?"

"Cause I had to."

I tried to remain calm as his hand found my knee. "But what about Bridget?"

"We want different things. I don't reckon Bridge ever liked me as much as what she wanted to change me into. She never understood why I couldn't give up on Quidditch."

I nodded. "The normal ones don't get it."

Oliver sighed, his face screwed up in concentration, as though he was working on a particularly complex play. "I've always thought Quidditch was all I wanted, you know? I don't care about fame. I've never been good with school. But Quidditch was the most important thing to me—more important than family or friends or even sleeping sometimes. But then, I met you, and it's like Quidditch isn't the most important thing anymore. Hell, I don't remember the last time I skipped out on practice."

"It's not very Captain-like."

"But that's what I'm trying to say," he insisted. "Something about you, Hayley, makes me feel like I want more than just Quidditch. No one's ever made me feel that way before. I've never really wanted to have anything else before."

Thinking about Dad, I smiled. "Passion." I took another long swig of whiskey. "Sometimes I think I'm boring."

"I never thought you were. It's this constant ache to be around you. All the time, I think about you—kissing you—touching you." His fingertips grazed my collarbone. "It was wrong, but I can't help it. I can't take it anymore. I just want—need—"

In an instant he had lifted me up so that I was sitting on top of the bar, and he was standing, trapping me with his arms. I barely had a chance to register the change because his hands cupped my face and brought my lips to his.

My head was spinning, and it hurt to think. But his body felt good and warm so I pulled him closer and curled my legs around him.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Hello, hello! This one was quite a sad one; I definitely teared up reading through. Big props to Molly (who just turned 20 yesterday!) for writing it all brilliantly. Those family themes always get me. Anyway...you guys are all totally awesome for coming back and reading, and your reviews are so much fun to read, so we thank you thank you thank you for all your support! Everyone's answers to last chapter's review questions were great, too. This week's questions: Who's your favorite Harry Potter character? Who's your favorite Harry Potter actor? What television show are you most excited for this season? What Pottermore house are you in (or, if you're not in one yet, which one do you think suits you best)?_

_So, please leave a review! We love to hear your thoughts and favorite parts/quotes! Thanks again for reading!_

_Stay awesome, and don't fall off bikes (true story; you can check out my Twitter for a nasty pic)._

_- Danica_


	11. Pratfall

**_SAAS INSTANT REPLAY:_**

_"I never thought you were. It's this constant ache to be around you. All the time, I think about you—kissing you—touching you." His fingertips grazed my collarbone. "It was wrong, but I can't help it. I can't take it anymore. I just want—need—"_

_In an instant he had lifted me up so that I was sitting on top of the bar, and he was standing, trapping me with his arms. I barely had a chance to register the change because his hands cupped my face and brought my lips to his._

_My head was spinning, and it hurt to think. But his body felt good and warm so I pulled him closer and curled my legs around him._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eleven<strong>

**Pratfall**

* * *

><p><em>Oliver's hands left my neck and started slipping down to my waist.<em>

I gripped the handle to my broom more tightly to get more stability in the pouring rain.

_He opened his mouth as I dug my heels into his lower back, and I took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, moving my lips hungrily against his._

Dodging past one of the Harpies's Beaters, I flew closer to Connor's tail.

_His jeans rubbed against mine, and my hips bucked against his, eliciting a groan. _

The rain was pouring down so heavily that it was beginning to seep through my robes, even though we had just begun playing not five minutes ago.

_Our jar of whiskey crashed to the ground and likely shattered, but Oliver did not stop. Instead, he brought his hands down to grip my thighs._

Bryce zoomed by me, waving his Beater's bat in the air.

_I pulled away from his lips, panting from lack of oxygen._

Pushing wet hair out of my face, I could see Jack's soaking figure as he intercepted a pass.

_Oliver pulled some of my hair off my neck and started to leave open-mouthed kisses along the base of my jaw._

Jack passed the ball to Connor, who flipped it over to me.

_I hung my head back to give Oliver better access as my fingers began to claw at his shirt._

Keeping a firm grip on the slippery Quaffle, I shot the ball over to Jack as we continued to fly in a triangle formation.

_He sensed what my fingers were trying to do and then pulled back so that he could remove his shirt._

Jack threw the ball to Connor who tossed it back to him.

_I launched myself at the newly revealed skin, wanting to touch every crevice, even biting into his shoulder._

I caught the Quaffle and tucked it under my arm.

_Impatiently, he began to tug at the hem of my shirt, and I moved back so that he could get it off._

Out of the corner of my eye, I could sense one of the Harpies's Chasers closing in on me from my right.

_He deftly unclasped my bra next and flung it carelessly behind the bar._

As the Chaser neared closer, I flung myself out of formation, tossing the Quaffle over to Connor before the girl could steal it away from me.

_Our bare skin slapped together as we began to kiss again._

Des sent a Beater zooming at the Chaser's head, and I was once again free to rejoin Connor and Jack.

_Oliver began to kiss down my navel._

Connor lost the Quaffle; it looked like the heavy rain had gotten into his eyes.

_I started fumbling with the button of his jeans._

Swerving around, I started racing after the Harpies Chaser in possession of the Quaffle.

_I was pushing Oliver's jeans down with my feet while he was working on slipping mine down my hips._

Connor was calling out instructions loudly, but I could not understand him over the pounding rain.

_I could see a sheen of sweat glistening over Oliver as his heavy breathing filled my ears._

Bridget darted past - a flash of sopping wet navy blue robes.

_My short nails dug into his back as I pulled him closer._

As the Harpies's Chaser neared the three hoops, I could almost see Oliver, circling the area.

_Oliver groaned loudly against my left breast, and I felt tingling sensations down my spine_.

Jack was rounding in on the Chaser in possession of the Quaffle.

_Oliver's eyes found mine, and he stared at me with a blazing look that went quite beyond the manic glint he often sported when discussing Quidditch strategy._

Coming at the Chaser from the side, Jack lunged towards the Chaser as I flew towards her, straight on.

_His movements turned less fiery and a bit more tender as he pushed hair out my eyes._

The Chaser panicked and dropped the Quaffle downwards, where Connor was waiting for it.

_I stared right back at him._

Connor tucked the ball under his arm.

_Oliver's grip on my thighs, still tangled around him, tightened as he angled my back against the bar._

We switched directions, flying towards the Harpies's hoops.

_Oliver pushed himself up onto the bar, and then he was hovering above me._

I rose in the air to find my spot.

_My eyes fluttered close as our hips began to rock together._

Connor passed to Jack, who sent the ball to me, as we formed a pattern of synchronization.

_Oliver murmured my name softly against my neck._

I dodged another Bludger and then caught Jack's pass.

_My fingers tugged at his hair as another few bottles crashed to the ground._

Jack fumbled for the slippery Quaffle. Thunder boomed through the sky.

_As the heat built, my muscles began to tighten._

Dripping wet, I clamped my legs firmer against my broom to hold on.

_I could feel my pulse quickening as my eyes began to roll backwards._

Forcing water off my face with my hand, I tried to figure out where the blurry shapes of Connor and Jack had gone.

_Oliver's heart thudded loudly against my chest._

Someone called my name out.

_His lips were back on mine._

Lightning crackled across the sky.

_I could feel myself sliding down._

Though my sight was still hazy, I could make out the three gold hoops as I came closer to them.

_I was panting harder than ever now._

My breath quickened as I looked around for my fellow Chasers.

_I could feel myself coming undone so I wrapped myself even closer into Oliver and covered his mouth with mine._

A figure appeared to my left.

_My eyelids clamped shut._

A Bludger collided into my stomach.

"_Oliver…"_

I was falling.

_My head was pounding. Oliver had fallen asleep on top of the bar. I smiled at the peaceful expression on his face, but I grew dizzy. It seemed like the copious amount of whiskey had caught up with me. Carefully, I shimmied out of his grasp, untangling my legs from his and removing the arm strewn over my stomach. My legs wobbled as I stood up, and I clutched my forehead in pain while stumbling up the stairs to Dad's flat._

_I threw on one of Dad's large t-shirts that was piled, freshly laundered, on his sofa and then used the loo before I raided his medicine cabinet for some aspirin. I had left my wand in the bar, and I felt too dazed to perform magic at the moment. I downed the pills with some water from the faucet and then stared at my reflection in Dad's mirror._

_For a brief moment, I could not help but to grin. I had wanted Oliver for so long, even if I tried not to admit it to myself. _

_Yet, I could not help but to feel a bit disgusted with myself. I had sex with Oliver on my father's bar right after Dad had a massive heart attack. _

_Suddenly, my brightened cheeks, glassy eyes, and messy hair looked shameful._

_I rammed my fist forward and punched the mirror, cracking it and sending shards of glass to the floor._

_The pain felt good; it distracted me from my headache for a moment before I hissed and started cursing my own stupidity._

_I floundered around, searching for medical supplies and then wrapped my hand up._

_Now my hand throbbed in addition to my head._

The first thing that registered in my brain was that I must be awake because everything hurt. Breathing was difficult, so I could guess that I had cracked some ribs, at best. My head, especially, stung; it felt like it was spinning around on an out-of-control Zenith.

With a painful tug, I remembered the crash. Reliving the moment in my memory, I could feel the Bludger crash into my body, obliterating my abdomen. Then, all I could recall was falling.

I realized that I must have landed at some point because now I seemed to be lying down. Sighing with relief when my toes complied with my wiggling orders, I consoled myself with the knowledge that I was not paralyzed.

I blinked a few times, but my eyelids felt too heavy to lift, as though each eyelash weighed forty thousand stones.

Rustling around in the bed, I discovered that I was wearing a thin gown. My ears began to unclog, and I heard the faint sound of beeping. My thoughts were speeding up now, and I could smell that weird sterile scent of metal as my haziness lifted.

"The match!" I hissed, pain shooting through my middle as my breathing kicked up. "What happened with the match?"

"We—we lost," a shaky voice answered me.

The darkness took me over again, bringing me out of consciousness.

_The aspirin eventually kicked in, and I was able to concentrate more fully. I drank a glass of water and stuffed my face with Dad's pumpernickel bread he kept in the pantry before returning down to the bar._

_Oliver was no longer sleeping. In fact, he was nowhere in sight. _

_I searched around the bar and even went back up to check Dad's flat before resigning to the knowledge that he had left, without as much as a note._

_As I, pink-faced, collected my clothing from various positions around the bar, I noted that he had taken his clothes with him. It was as though the night had never happened._

_I sat on top of the bar and looked around. _

_Oliver had even managed to clean up the broken bottles off the floor._

_I supposed I should be grateful that he did such a thorough job of cleaning up after himself. I would have hated if he had left a mess behind._

_Eventually, I got off the bar and went back upstairs into Dad's flat. Though I was beyond exhausted, I had difficulty falling asleep until at last everything turned dark._

My consciousness phased into hazy awareness. I dimly understood that I must have fallen asleep last time. My headache, though still present, was much more manageable, and I was able to fully open my eyes.

I looked around as I carefully pulled myself into an almost sitting position, wincing as my ribs twinged.

"Oh, thank Jesus, you're awake."

"Daddy?" I asked stupidly, turning towards the voice. "Is that you?"

"Careful, Hayles," he warned me. "Healer Baccari said you're not supposed to move too much. Your ribs are still tender from all the potions they used to fix 'em."

I reached down to run my fingers against my side and was met with thick bandages. I wanted to cry out in pain, but I bit back the sounds. I did not want Dad to worry. "How are you doing?"

"Hayles, you fell out of the sky, and you're worried about me?"

"How are you doing?" I pressed in annoyance as it became a bit harder to seem unaffected by the pain.

"All righ', all righ'," Dad answered with a sigh. "I'm supposed to be released tomorrow. They just want to run a few last-minute tests to make sure that the ticker is working the way it's s'posed to."

I nodded as I relaxed back against my pillow. Dad continued to talk, but I struggled to hear him until eventually I fell back asleep.

_I only slept for a few hours before showering, changing into some old clothes I had stashed in Dad's flat, and returning to the hospital. Because the sun had barely risen, none of my brothers were there yet. Nora was gone; one of the workers told me she had gone home with Carter for some sleep and was not expected back till much later that day._

_Healer Baccari met with me before letting me in to see Dad to explain his condition. Now that Dad was out of imminent danger, Healer Baccari seemed much jollier and behaved more like the bloke I knew from going with Dad to his checkups. He cracked a few jokes that were likely very funny but left me feeling hollow as yesterday's events dwelled in my mind._

_I tried to stay in the present moment, but I kept wondering why Oliver had left and whether I would see him soon._

_Dad was still sleeping when I was allowed to see him, but it was a different sleep than yesterday's near comatose. There was drool hanging from his parted lips, and I was comforted by his heavy snores._

_I pulled up a chair next to his bed and held his hand as he slept._

_After about an hour, Ayden showed up, looking disheveled but better rested than I had seen him yesterday._

"_How are things?" Ayden asked._

"_Healer Baccari said—"_

"_Yeah, I know," Ayden cut me off. "I met with him just now, and he gave me an update. I was actually asking about you, Hayles. You look like hell."_

"_Thanks."_

"_Did you sleep at all? Shit, I should have taken you home with me. Where'd you go?"_

"_Dad's," I answered him, trying not to think about lying on top of the bar with Oliver positioned over me. "I'm fine. Where are Brendan and Collin?"_

"_I reckon they'll be here soon. Hopefully they won't be as cranky as you."_

When I woke up for the third time, it didn't take me as long to remember where I was. Immediately, I searched the left side of the room, looking for Dad.

"He's not here," Ayden told me.

I turned to see him, Collin, and Brendan sitting in chairs by the window.

"They took him to go run a test. He'll be back soon."

I nodded and pulled myself so that I was almost sitting. The brightness of the room assaulted my eyes. "Urgh, what time is it?"

"A little after noon," answered Collin. "You're lucky I love you, Hayles. Work is on my ass for all the time I've missed for hospital trips. I'm skipping lunch for this."

"Yeah, well, you're obviously really suffering," said Brendan pointedly.

I looked over to see that Collin was helping himself to my lunch tray. He spooned a bit of pudding into his mouth and then frowned in distaste. "Merlin," he grumbled. "No wonder everyone is sick here. They call this rubbish food? They're mad."

"Just be grateful they let us bunk Hayley and Dad in the same room," Ayden chastised him while smacking the back of his head so that the spoon fell out of his mouth.

"Well, I'll be joining them soon if I don't get some proper sustenance!" whined Collin as he stood up and came closer towards my bed. "You know, Hayles, I realize you're injured and all, but do you reckon you could have done this some other time? I mean talk about riding on Dad's coattails. A fatal accident that lands you in St. Mungo's. Honestly! Where's the originality?" He laughed when I stuck my tongue out at him before spotting something on my nightstand. "Maybe she's got something good in one of those," he mused before opening up the assorted get-well packages.

"Those are mine?" I asked.

"Your teammates came in to check on you before," Brendan explained, seeing as Collin was too preoccupied with tearing apart tissue paper. "And they left a few things. Nora came by, too, with Carter. She left—"

"Double chocolate fudge brownies," finished Collin reverently, holding up a thick bin, wrapped with a red ribbon, signifying that it must be Nora's handiwork. "Er, Hayley, you don't mind, right?"

While it pained me to see anything Nora be devoured by my undeserving berk of a brother, my ribs hurt too much for me to even contemplate eating anything at the moment.

Collin took my silence for acquiescence and shoved a brownie sloppily into his mouth as he continued to rifle through my gifts. He punched the air when he found a bottle of bourbon. "Jackpot!"

"Let me guess," I said, examining the bottle he was holding. "Sammy Willins?"

"How'd you know?"

Thinking about that night when Sammy told me about Puddlemere tryouts many months before, I sighed and sank back into my pillow. "He always orders bourbon."

_Fletcher gave me the rest of the week off to take care of Dad. I had a feeling that Richard Cooke might have intervened on my behalf after I owled him a letter explaining the situation. _

_I spent my days at the hospital with Dad. Whether he was awake or not, I felt better being around him, even if I had no actual training to help him._

_At night, though, the staff had no choice but to kick me out. Not quite ready to go back home, I had been going to McCoy's and manning the bar for a few hours each night._

_Ayden, Brendan, and Collin stopped by when they could to help, but I did most of the work. I wanted to do it because I knew Dad would want the pub open._

_His customers asked frequently about his condition and gave me parcels and notes to bring him at the hospital. _

_Fixing drinks did not feel as cathartic as it did before. McCoy's used to be a perfect glass of whiskey. Now that Oliver and I had left things the way they were, however, being there was like drinking an appletini._

"_Oh! Lass! I ordered a gin and tonic! This is a rum and Coke!"_

"_Oh, shit. Sorry," I apologized quickly as I rushed over to the older bloke with yellow teeth. "I'll get a new one for you—on the house."_

_As I poured his drink, I could hear him grumbling about poor service._

"_Oi, you dunderhead! Shut your trap. Sean's in the hospital. Give the girlie a break."_

Collin and Ayden had to go back to work, but Brendan hung around until Dad came back from his tests. We spent a few minutes sorting through my gift baskets.

Brendan helped himself to my brownies, as well, as I re-read the note Fletcher had sent me.

_McCoy,_

_Rest up and get better quickly. We've got a match against the Tornadoes coming up and can't afford another loss if we want to be in good standings for the Euro Cup._

_Fletcher_

"Whazzat?" asked Brendan, tearing the note from my hands.

"Oi!" I complained but could not grab it back without hurting my abdomen.

Brendan read the note and then tossed it in the bin. "Wanker," he spat. "Who the hell does he think he is?"

"The coach of Puddlemere United, an internationally ranked professional Quidditch team?"

"Well, I think he's a right git, as if he really needed to boss you around while you're in the hospital after nearly killing yourself playing Quidditch. Doesn't he care about that, hmm?"

My heart warmed at his anger. "Oi, Brendan, is that you admitting you love me?"

"Oh, shut it, Hayles."

"And we're back to normal." I looked over to eye the cleared table to see if any more packages were there, perhaps charmed to be invisible.

"Expecting anything from anyone?"

"What? No."

"You know, that bloke stopped by to check on you."

My heart raced. "He did?"

"Yeah. Dad had a good time talking to that Jack fellow. How many boyfriends do you got?"

_Jack and Connor were pretty quiet during the prep time before the match. Connor, always a good character judge, sensed that I needed some space. Jack, however, came up to me almost as soon as I entered the pitch to mollycoddle me. He handed me a bag of jelly beans with a hesitant expression, as though he was afraid I might break at any moment._

"_Here," he said gently. "I special ordered them to only contain comfort-food-flavored beans. There's chocolate and mashed potatoes and warm milk in there."_

"_Thanks, Jack," I replied as I clutched the bag to my chest._

"_How's your dad doing?"_

"_Better. Not going to be running marathons anytime soon, but better."_

"_I tried to come visit you at the hospital, but they wouldn't tell me what ward he was in."_

_I thought of how Oliver had bribed the Welcome Witch to get in and briefly wondered whether Jack had tried that. "Yeah, it was a closed ward."_

_Jack pulled me into a hug. "I know our situation is a bit awkward right now, Hayley, but if you need anything, I'm here for you."_

Dad came back from his tests, and Healer Baccari sat down to talk to me about my condition. He explained that I had suffered from some head trauma from the fall in addition to cracking several important ribs.

However, he assured me that recovery was speedily progressing, and that I would be able to leave the next day with Dad.

"When can I play Quidditch again?" I asked.

"Well, you might want to wait a couple of weeks."

"Weeks? But we've got a match against the Tornadoes on Saturday! Isn't there something you can do?"

"Physically, there's no reason why you couldn't play. However, I think it would be extremely inadvisable to do so. Really, Hayley, I know it's important to you, but isn't your health more important than a game?"

_Bryce, displaying his wonderful lack of tact, joked with me as I entered the girls' locker room. "If I had a daughter with your legs, Hayles, I'd probably have a heart attack, too."_

_I really tried to be cross with him, but I could not help but to crack a smile—the first in what felt like days._

_Once inside, I began changing into my Quidditch robes. Des took her spot beside me and wrapped her bloody hands normally. She gave me a nod in acknowledgement but did not say much else. _

_She did offer me access to her punching bag, but I declined. Running was more my forte. _

_Subtly, I tried to ask her about what the team had been up to while I was away._

"_Well, Jack has been a bit of a mess," she said frankly. "He thinks it was somehow his fault that your dad got sick."_

"_And that contains logic how?"_

"_Search me," she replied. "But that boy was raised on guilt. Mothers, Hayley. They do a number on you-er, sorry."_

_I shrugged. "It's cool."_

_Des punched her wrapped fist into the locker wall. "No, it isn't. Fuck. When did I turn into Bryce?"_

_I listened to Des's grumblings for a few minutes before my patience ebbed away. "Have you seen Oliver lately?"_

"_I think he's padlocked himself into the Lab. I haven't seen him leave this place all week. Why?" she asked pointedly, seeing at once through my bullshit attempt at nonchalance._

"_No reason," I lied coolly._

_Des must have really felt bad for me because she let it drop._

As the afternoon grew later, my stomach began to grumble. Dinner involved strained peas and a mushy substance that seemed like it was supposed to stand for meat. I pushed it around on my tray while my stomach gurgled in hunger.

To my unexpected pleasure, Des dropped in while Dad was out to have yet another test done. She sank down onto a chair beside my bed and propped her muddy boots onto my hospital bed's rails.

"How's tricks?"

"Well, you know, I'm still breathing, and the heart still ticks."

"So five by five, then?"

"Sure," I replied with a laugh.

Des nodded and then scanned the room quickly as she flicked a bit of her hair out of her eyes. Then, she reached into her dragon skin jacket and pulled out a bag. "Here," she said as she tossed it to me.

I reached up to catch it instinctually, wincing when my ribs protested.

"Still sore?"

"I'm fine," I insisted.

"Not bleeding, right?"

I laughed as I began to open the bag. "So there's nothing to complain about—damn." My eyes fluttered close as I smelled the grease coming off the burger and fries.

"I figured you'd be hungry. I had to come here once to get treated from a griffin injury. I bloody hate hospitals. Shit food and ruddy gowns that don't cover your ass cause being sick means you fucking have to show everyone the goods."

Des continued to gripe as I stuffed my face. I had to take smaller bites than normal for it to go down, but it was so worth it.

After I finished eating, Des shifted around uncomfortably.

"What?" I demanded.

Des sighed and then pulled out a bag from her jacket and placed it in my lap.

Carefully, I opened it and found the splintered bits of my Zenith. My lip quivered, and I felt a pain in my ribs worse than getting hit by that Bludger.

Des thoughtfully looked away as I clutched the broken bits of my faithful broom to my chest.

"That's why I gave you the burger first," Des quipped dryly after about a minute.

I took a deep breath and then forced determination onto my face. "How's the team?"

After spending a solid chunk of time thoroughly trash talking the Harpies Beaters and avowing to break their noses to avenge my injury, Des caught me up on everything Fletcher was saying about our chances for the Euro Cup. I listened eagerly, biting my tongue whenever I felt like interrupting with a question.

"So, as long as we win our next four matches, we should be okay."

"What does Fletcher think our chances are?"

"Well, we've beaten the Tornadoes already this year. The Magpies can be tricky, but I reckon Bridget will help with that. I've always thought the Gorodok Gargoyles were hyped up more than they should be. The Wasps might do us in, though."

I frowned when I remembered the loss. "How's morale?"

"Straight up, H, it's not that good. I don't want to get all up in your shit, but is there—did something happen between—"

Des did not have time to finish her question because a healer came into the room to check on me, and she had to spring out of her chair to hide the evidence of my dinner.

Dad, however, smelled it almost as soon as he came back to the room. "All right, girl, who brought you real food?" he demanded once the Healer exited the room.

"Des," I told him with a sigh, too weary to lie.

"Do you reckon she could get any more?"

"Dad!"

Dad laughed weakly. "Sorry, I know. Healer Baccari says I've got to take my diet restrictions more seriously. I reckon if I had listened to you in the first place, we wouldn't be here right now."

"Dad," I began.

"No," he cut me off. "Don't feel bad for me, Hayles. It's my own bloody fault. You kids need a parent, and I'm mucking things up just for a few cooked reubens. Sure, corned beef is God's gift to the Irishmen, but I love you and your brothers more than that. So bring on the rabbit food."

I grinned.

"But you got to promise me that you won't fly so reckless next match. Hell, Hayles, you scared the shit out of me. They had to come change the bed and everything."

"That's disgusting."

"I was joking."

I sighed and fiddled with my bed rails. "You're the one who told me to play." It was true. I had offered to let someone from Reserves take my spot, but Dad absolutely refused. He said he would not allow me in his hospital room ever again if I did not get onto that pitch and fly.

"Yeah, well, I thought it was the best thing. Still think so. Next time, I'd just like to see you win the damn match."

_As we were all huddled in the locker room, I tried to catch Oliver's eye, but he was staring straight ahead, waiting with a fierce sort of anticipation for his name to be called._

_I felt a bit of nervousness, not unlike that I experienced at my first match. Even though I had only missed about four days of practice, I still felt like I was going into the match wrong—like someone had put a hex on me._

_I tried to think about flying tactics and how I should adjust my throw due to the rain, but I could not concentrate._

"_I do hope it stops raining," Bridget mused beside me. "I didn't have a chance to put extra pins in my hair."_

The next day, Brendan came to help Dad back to his flat; Ayden could not get away from the kids and Collin had work.

"So I got stuck with yeh, Dad," he teased as he started swirling him around in the wheelchair Healer Baccari brought.

"Oi! Watch it, yeh great brute," Dad chided. "I'm still delicate."

Brendan sent me a nonplussed look, and I could not help but to laugh. I was feeling much better this morning; something in the potions they had given me must have taken effect. Dressed in some clothes Carter had picked up for me from the flat, I was seated in my bed, feet jangling against the rail in anxiety.

They offered to wait around for me, but I told them to go on ahead. After nearly a week in the hospital, I knew how badly Dad wanted to head home.

Dad protested, but I won him over when I assured him that Nora would be by to process my discharge just as soon as her shift was over.

"All right, Hayles, but owl me if anything happens and when you get home."

"You got it, Dad. Now go before you start to smell like St. Mungo's."

"Start to!" echoed Brendan with a wink at me before eagerly pushing Dad's chair back onto its hind wheels. "Let's do this thing!"

I waited fretfully for about twenty minutes for Nora to show up—she had promised she would be done twelve minutes ago—when someone walked through the door.

I was quite surprised to see that it was Bridget, looking devastatingly beautiful, as always. I did my best to hide my astonishment and invited her to pop a squat on the chair next to my bed.

Bridget sat down and eyed the pile of ransacked baskets on the nightstand—all of what Collin had not managed to swallow.

"Did you get my basket?"

"Yes," I replied. "I didn't even need to see the card. Thanks for the Cooke Milkshake Magic Maker."

"I included some coconut oil in there too."

"Awesome."

I waited patiently for her to say something while fiddling with the bandages along my torso. I froze in shock when Bridget flung her arms around me in a tight hug while I was still hunched over.

"Oh, Hayley," she bemoaned. "I just feel so wretched."

My mind immediately jumped to Oliver, and I panicked at the thought of her finding out what had happened between us. Yet, her grip on me did not lessen, and I wondered if this was perhaps an attempt to suffocate me.

However, Bridget did let go of me, and I, coughing up her sweet perfume, was both astonished and alarmed when she emerged with tears in her eyes.

"I mean," she continued with a sniff, "I can't believe this happened in the first place."

"Uhh, Bridge, thanks, I guess…but I don't bloody have any idea what you're talking about."

Bridget gave me a sympathetic smile. "Don't repress, Hayley. It will only become worse. Everyone needs a good cry every once in a while. Sometimes, if I haven't cried in a while, I listen to this one song that always makes me think of—anyway, I just wanted to say that if you need anything—anything at all—I'm here for you."

"Oh, er, thanks, Bridget," I said as I awkwardly patted her on the back.

"I just can't believe it. It's completely unfathomable. First, your dad has a heart attack, and your life goes through the ringer. And then you wind up in the hospital yourself!"

"I know," I said dully, thinking of Collin. "How unoriginal."

"Maybe you should take some time off. You were in a right state at that Harpies match as it was. You have more important things to worry about."

"Well, it is Quidditch."

Bridget rolled her eyes. "Yes, but I'd curse John Fletcher beyond the veil if he thought he could get me to leave my father so that I could catch a ruddy ball."

"Dad's doing a lot better," I told her. "He just left the hospital less than a half hour ago. Plus, I signed a contract, you know. Fletch was already pretty great with letting me skip practice this week to be with Dad and then for my stupid injury. I can't believe I let that bloody Bludger get me. Do you know which Harpies's Beater it was?"

Bridget patted my shoulder. "You must be so shaken. I don't know what I would do if Daddy was every seriously ill."

I shrunk out of her grasp. Frankly, I did not want to talk about the hospital or Dad anymore. I really just wanted to go back to thinking about Quidditch.

"Especially after—" Bridget paused suddenly and grew very somber.

I stopped adjusting my elbow pads and eyed her curiously.

Bridget noticed my gaze and then plastered a dewy smile onto her face. "Well, of course, you don't know. I haven't told you. I'm just surprised no one has mentioned it before, seeing as it's something we both have in common." Bridget paused again, leaving me in confusion, and then took a shaky breath. "My mum is dead too."

My jaw dropped, and I sat there quite flabbergasted. I tried to do something comforting, but words and actions failed me.

"It's okay," she offered, obviously sensing my ineptitude. "No need to say anything. There's never really anything to say with these things, you know?"

I nodded. "What happened?"

Bridget smiled sadly. "When I was sixteen, Mum got sick. It was nothing really. Just a simple cold. I had been sick earlier that month. I caught the flu before I went home for Christmas, and I must have spread it to her. She picked up a tonic from Diagon Alley and took it that night. She would have been fine, but she collapsed after taking it. After that, she would fall asleep for a long time. This happened for a few weeks before Dad and I took her to St. Mungo's. It wasn't a tonic. Someone had botched up the Draught of Living Death and then mislabeled it. She fell asleep once and then went into a coma. Some of the best Healers in the world treated her, trying to get her to wake up, but there was nothing they could do. She died six months later."

My stomach dropped, and I folded my hands in my lap.

"A part of me wishes that we had had more time together, but she was suffering. Mum loved everything about life. She was so vivacious. She used to call me her 'firecracker.' She would have hated sleeping forever, I think. It was a blessing that she went when she did." She wiped away a tear that had slipped down her cheek.

"My mum died suddenly," I felt compelled to blurt out. "Aneurysm."

"That's good," Bridget said morbidly. "I think. I mean, I've only lost the one mum, but I think it'd be better not to know it was coming."

"So there's no waiting," I agreed.

"Exactly," replied Bridget as her tone turned more matter-of-fact and she wiped spare tears from her eyes. "Well, I just wanted you to know that I'm here for you. If anything ever happened to Daddy. I don't even have siblings like you do…I mean, I know that he can be rather a character sometimes, but he's my dad."

I nodded, knowing just how she felt.

"So I'm really happy that your dad is doing better, Hayley. I'm really glad that he—woke up."

"Thanks, Bridge. For the record, you know, I'm really sorry about your mum."

"Me too," I replied.

Bridget smiled and gave me another hug. "Well, it's not like I'm alone. I've got Daddy and Oliver." She frowned as the name left her lips.

"O-Oliver?" I asked.

"Yes, though he's been in quite a mood lately. I just don't know what is wrong with him. He wants to break up, and then he doesn't. He shuts himself up in the Lab and won't do anything but grunt at people all week. I think he might have cracked!"

I choked on my own spit.

"Oh, that's sweet of you to be so concerned, but don't worry about my love troubles right now, Hayley!"

Bridget left shortly after, and I was left alone to contemplate what she had told me. Despite the broken ribs and head trauma, I felt more injured by my actions: I had had sex with someone else's boyfriend.

And not just anyone: Bridget Cooke, a girl whose mum died. She visited me in the hospital and gave me coconut oil, and I slept with her boyfriend.

"Hayley? Ready to go?"

I looked up to see Nora smiling at me.

She frowned. "_Dorogoi_, are you okay?"

"Can you just take me home now, please?"

_I was flying around the pitch when a figure appeared to my left. Lightning crashed, and I turned to watch it. I spotted Bridget flying and felt a pain in my side._

_I knew that I had betrayed her friendship, and in that instant, the guilt consumed me._

_For just a moment, I lost my focus, and suddenly a Bludger came out of nowhere and collided into my stomach._

_All the air rushed out of my lungs as I lost my grip on my Zenith._

_I was falling._

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_Hello, lovelies._  
><em>It's the first day of fall (how apt of a pun). I realize that this chapter probably is not what you want. Frankly, my dears, I don't give a damn.<em>  
><em>Life continues. Two chapters left. I finished writing this story about a month ago so I'm excited about ending it. I've been thinking about starting a blog since my fanfic career is two weeks from over. Would anyone have an interest in reading that?<em>  
><em>I enjoy all the reviews and hearing your answers to the questions (though, of course it is just a shameless gimmick and I much prefer story analysis). Soo:<em>  
><em>What do you want to be for Halloween? What's your favorite dessert? What Quidditch position would you play? Describe your first kiss.<em>  
><em>This seems a bit lame. I think Danica writes better notes than me. Too bad she is too busy having a life all the time (the nerve).<em>

_-Molly_

_"Oi, what's up her ass? Reckon she's on the rag?"_  
><em>"Shut it, Bryce! Just because you can be an ass all the time doesn't mean you should."<em>  
><em>"Course, Desiree. Wouldn't want to work my ass too hard, eh? We'll wait till later. Carry on, Molls!"<em>


	12. Dismount

_SAAS INSTANT REPLAY:_

_I was flying around the pitch when a figure appeared to my left. Lightning crashed, and I turned to watch it. I spotted Bridget flying and felt a pain in my side._

_I knew that I had betrayed her friendship, and in that instant, the guilt consumed me._

_For just a moment, I lost my focus, and suddenly a Bludger came out of nowhere and collided into my stomach._

_All the air rushed out of my lungs as I lost my grip on my Zenith._

_I was falling._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twelve<strong>

**Dismount**

* * *

><p>Unconsciously, my fingertips began sliding across a long row of white dresses. With one ear, I was listening to Nora's continual commentary as she examined each dress, flicking one hanger after another with a clank.<p>

I knew that when Nora dragged me off the sofa that this trip was not going to be my vintage. I was even more positive of that fact when I walked into Azalea's Wedding Dress Shoppe: Bewitching Value and eyed the floor filled with tightly packed rows of marshmallow-shaped gowns.

"I cannot, in good conscious, allow you to sit here on your day off and dwell on that _mudak_," she had told me, looking a bit like a tiger in pearls.

Nora was the only person I had told about what happened between Oliver and me. Since then, she had skirted around mentioning his name —referring to him only in derogatory terms if necessary.

Neither Nora nor I could understand what was going on with said Scot. He had ignored me all this past week, only mentioning me in reference to the "Chasers" during his prep talk before our match yesterday against the Tornadoes.

We managed to win that one—thank Merlin—no thanks to me. My playing was so shoddy that I needed an extra hour in the shower to drown the anger out of me.

Des tried to comfort me afterwards, having skipped out on the party to wait for me. "You did play like shit, H," she agreed after listening to my griping, "but you're still adjusting back into it. How's the new Zenith working?"

It still pained me to think about the moment when Des handed me that bag of splintered wood. Even though we had not known each other very long, I still felt oddly attached to him. The broken remnants of my once working Zenith were now packed away in a box in my closet.

Des clucked her tongue and then whacked me on the back with her fist. "You'll come back. I once shattered all the bones in the left side of my body back when I was in school. Two Bludgers. Hurt like the ninth circle of hell. My technique came back after about a month or so."

Yet, I did not feel like my flying was going to get any better. I had always heard that falls affected a player, but I never thought it would happen to me.

For now, it seemed like our team needed to rely on Bridget to score points.

Thinking about Bridget made me feel hungover. Ever since she confided in me about her mum, I could not, with good conscious, hate her. Consequently, her recent abundance of chipper attitude and chats about how she thought she and Oliver were doing better only made me more hateful of myself.

And the nefarious, foul, loathsome thing I had done with her boyfriend.

"Shit," I groaned as my finger got caught on something frilly.

"…Too many ruffles, I'd look like meringue pie-Hayles? You all right over there?"

"Er, yeah," I said, focusing back on the task at hand. "Just lost in a sea of white tents. Are you sure these are supposed to be dresses?"

I could see her laugh, her neck up the only thing visible behind a long row of white. "Helpful, Hayles."

"Hey, you're the one who wanted me to come along."

"Well, I had to get you out of the flat, didn't I?" she mused while resuming her perusal of the dresses. "Though, now come to think of it, I probably should have brought along someone with an iota of fashion sense."

Just to spite her, I filtered through a row and pulled out a dress and shoved it into the air for her to see. "Oi, Ellenore! What about this rig?"

"Hayley, look at that dress for a second."

I brought it done and grimaced at the awful poufy sleeves and bows. "Bloody hell, that's hideous."

Smiling, Nora came up to me with her hands laden with dresses and shoved them into my arms. "See, Hayley, you're learning about style."

"Oh, shut up."

Nora forced me to help her get the damn dresses on—which required maneuvers almost as complicated as the Hog Spine drill—in the dressing room. She tried on loads of them; there must have been at least six or seven.

After the third one, I was already spent and ready to go home. However, Nora persisted that we had to get through the whole lot of them.

Even though Nora was very pretty, most of the stuff made her look kind of ridiculous, like she had lizard arms covered in sparkly scales or hips the size of the Queen of England's.

One of them looked pretty all right, though. Nora was not sold on it and decided that we would have to keep shopping at a later date.

While the thought of wedding dress shopping again nearly made me want to break all my ribs once more, I was grateful for the momentary reprieve. We headed back to the flat, and Nora got ready to go out with Carter while I Apparated over to Dad's flat to help him make Sunday dinner.

As soon as he got home from the hospital, Dad has stuck Healer Baccari's list of dietary restrictions to his fridge and was doing his best to stick to it.

Unfortunately, Dad struggled with cooking anything that was not deep fried. However, with my meager culinary skills and a fat lot of help from a cook book Nora had given me, we came up with something that could pass for watery ratatouille.

Dad, who did not trust anything he could barely pronounce, seemed weary to try the dish, but he eyed Healer Baccari's list on the fridge and then bravely took a bite.

"You know," commented a chomping Brendan, who had showed up promptly after the meal had been completed and the table set, "this isn't that bad."

"It's decent," agreed Collin. "Though, next week, Hayles, maybe you should bring Nora with you, eh?"

"Don't shit on your sister," Dad scolded before turning to me. "How is Nora?"

"Good. We went wedding dress shopping today."

"She's still planning on marrying that Abrams scoundrel?"

"Yes, Dad."

"You know," piped up Ayden while sipping a beer. "You should go with her to this one place down in Diagon Alley. That's where Claire got her dress. They've got a great selection of satin gowns."

The rest of dinner was spent mocking Ayden's masculinity, which was finally subdued when he whacked Collin in the back of the head and declared, "Oi, I've got three kids in this world, and you're still too chicken shit to ask a girl to marry you. Who's got balls now?'

Collin then tactfully chose to insert a conversation change and brought up Quidditch.

After an hour of listening to them discuss stats while internally fretting about my technique, I announced that I was heading home.

"You sure you're okay, girl?" Dad asked me in private as I was putting on my coat.

"Yeah, Dad," I assured him. "I'm right as rain."

The March weather appeared to be reflecting my mood because the next few days of practice went from sun to heavy rain to hail to clouds. Fletcher worked us harder than ever.

He wanted Jack, Connor, and I to learn five new plays before our match against the Magpies on Saturday. "We've got to stay sharp!" he insisted, pointing his wand emphatically at the moving scribbles on the board during a Lab meeting. "Too many great teams lose because their players become predictable."

In an effort to thwart the competition, Fletcher actually wanted us to start letting ourselves get tackled so that we could drop the Quaffle down to a teammate flying below us. Practicing the move was brutal. After having Connor collide into me nineteen times, I was ready to punch someone.

However, we were not the only ones risking our bones. Bryce and Des were working on a new play that involved Des swinging Bryce back and then catapulting him forward so that he could hit the Bludger with more momentum. Only, the first few times they tried it, Bryce just ended up knocking out one of Des's teeth.

Meanwhile, Fletcher was urging Bridget to start trying to attract opponents and Bludgers to her while looking for the Snitch and kept trying to get Oliver to charge down Chasers heading for his direction.

"Just pretend it's Copeland, Wood, and you'll be fine," he grunted.

In effect, I left practices feeling almost as sore as I did when I was in the hospital.

"It's too much!" insisted Jack on Wednesday during lunch.

"Don't be such a rookie, kid," replied Connor loftily, though he had large purple bruises under his eyes rather than just the normal bags and he seemed so tired that the task of bringing his sandwich up to his lips was too taxing for him. "I've had worse."

"Yes, but during the spring? We should be saving our strength for the upcoming Euro Cup—not seeking out new and exciting ways to get ourselves dead."

My shoulders slumped as I rested my face into my tuna sandwich in exhaustion. "All right, Jack. I'll tell Fletch at your funeral."

"And you're still recovering from an injury, Hayley!" Jack pressed. "It just seems to me that we could all use a bit of a breather."

While Jack made all sorts of sense, it seemed that only Bridget and Bryce really agreed with him. Des refused to complain, even after Bryce accidentally dislocated her shoulder.

"We signed up to play Quidditch," she said after practice on Thursday, which led to no remarkable injuries but had to be endured in the freezing rain. "Not take Cheering Charms all day while stuffing our gobs with Honeydukes chocolate." She pulled off her soaking wet Quidditch gear and began unstrapping the bandages from her scabby hands. "This is all just part of the glamour of being a professional."

Ordinarily, I think I would have coped with Fletcher's intensity well, but my drive was staunched by just how poorly I had been playing lately.

Connor tried to make me feel better by saying that all those stories about how some players destined for the Quidditch Hall of Fame lost everything after a bad injury were just talk.

"Though, o'course, I did notice it happening to Gibbons and Wontroski. Oh! And not to mention Thompson, Dunga, and Kitchin. And you could never forget that travesty that occurred back in '89 when Whedon completely lost it all. Though, I'm sure you'll be fine, Hayley!"

Despite his promising words, I felt shaky in the air. It could have been the new Zenith I was riding, but I felt like that was a lame ass excuse.

My balance was off; my flying was jilted. I did not go for the radical passes the way I had in the past. Half of practice was filled with Fletcher yelling out my name to correct something or other.

I was using my elbow in my throws again. Fletcher did not have to point it out—though he did at least forty times a day—I knew it. I could feel it every time my arm extended, but I could not seem to force my body to abandon its safe position on my broom long enough to throw correctly.

In effect, I was flying worse than ever.

"What's going on up there, McCoy!" Fletcher screeched from the stands. "Elbow! Elbow! Elbow! If I knew that giving you a few days to recuperate would turn you into a member of the Chudley Cannons, I wouldn't have given them to you! Now ruddy start flying the way I taught you or I'll send you right back to amateur status! Dammit, Murph! Why is Faust bleeding again? You know my policy on blood. For fuck's sake! STONE!"

By Friday morning, Fletcher had had enough.

"Unforgivable Room, McCoy," he barked out as soon as I entered the pitch.

"Ooh, someone's in trouble," sing-songed Bryce.

"Laps, Stone. Wood, you hold the fort till Murph and Deering get here. Let's go McCoy."

Though I had gotten accustomed to waking up at five in the morning to be at the pitch by six, I felt exhaustion as I trudged through the stands to zig zag through the sections until I found the secret corridor that led to the Unforgivable Room.

Fletcher picked up a Quaffle and tugged at his blue cap. "All right, McCoy. Enough is enough. No player on my team is going to fly like you've been. Now, we are going to toss this Quaffle back and forth until that elbow of yours falls off."

For the first hour, I stayed silent while focusing on passing and catching the ball. Occasionally, Fletcher would bark out some sort of instruction, but otherwise he stayed quiet.

Unfortunately, as more time went on, my throws appeared to be getting worse, not better.

"Focus, McCoy!"

"Watch the elbow!"

"Did I move a half meter to the left without noticing?"

"Sharper! That could have been easily intercepted."

"Faster!"

"You're not focusing, McCoy!"

I heaved the Quaffle at his chest, anger brewing inside my own. "I am focusing!" I growled.

"Then why are you throwing like my ninety-four-year-old grandmum? Stop playing like a girl and act like a player."

"Stop insulting me because I'm female." I caught the Quaffle again and then launched at him with even more force. Sweat was spewing down my forehead, and my stomach was rumbling with hunger. My arms felt limp, and my knees were beginning to buckle.

Fletcher threw it back to me, and I almost dropped it due to the slickness of my sweaty hands.

"Focus!"

I slammed the Quaffle onto the ground and then punted it across the room.

"McCOY!"

"This isn't working!" I yelled irately. "I can't do this anymore."

"Well, you better fix that, McCoy, or you're not playing in tomorrow's match."

In that moment I became aware of all the things I should been doing in my life.

I should be happier for Nora instead of zoning out when I was supposed to be helping her with plans for her wedding and secretly sulking whenever I thought about having to live alone.

I should tell my Dad the truth about how I am really doing in my life, not stay closed off because I know how disappointed he would be in me.

I should apologize to Jack and Bridget for being a horrible friend.

I should be mature and tell Oliver how I really felt about him and how hurt I was when he left without saying anything that night at the bar.

I should go pick up the Quaffle, apologize to Fletcher, and then start passing again. I should suck up my pride and be the good, obedient Quidditch player.

"McCoy! Where are you going?"

I paused at the doorway and turned around to see his purple face enraged underneath his cap.

"I can't," I told him.

Instead of doing all those things I should have done, I fled the room and raced into the girls' locker room.

Part of me really wanted to go back onto the pitch with my head hung and my tail between my legs, but I refrained. I was stuck to the bench by the lockers like an ice cold drink on a paper napkin.

Though I did not wear a watch, I knew exactly when practice ended because I could hear voices outside the door.

"What do you reckon happened to her?"

"Well, she almost died a few days after her dad almost died."

"Yeah, but really, Jack-O-Lantern, what's that about? I bet it's just lady problems."

"Bryce, shut up!"

"Now, Desiree, surely you don't mean that."

"Well, Bryce, right now I think that you deserve a harpoon shoved up your—"

"Why are you lot just standing outside? I bet you ten galleons she can hear you. Honestly! If you're all going to be immature, I'll go talk to her!"

I froze in horror as the door opened to reveal a bunch of heads ducking out of sight and then Bridget, flashing me a cautious smile.

"Hey, Hayley," she greeted me, as if I was an acromantula about to attack.

"'Lo, Bridge."

"What's going on? Coach Fletcher didn't mention what happened. Are you hurt?"

"No."

Bridget sat down next to me on the bench. "Well, then why aren't you at practice?"

I picked at my mesh shorts and stared at my shoes.

"Everyone is really worried about you. Everybody! Jack, Des, Connor, Oliver—"

I snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"Well, I know I don't speak for Oliver yet, but he's the Captain of our team. Of course he wants one of his Chasers to be all right."

"Right. Quidditch," I said, resenting the word.

Quidditch was all I was, and now I did not even have that because it had been ruined for me by Oliver Wood.

My masochism seemed to be breaking its past statistical records because the next moment, I asked, "How are you and Oliver doing?"

"Oh, well, you know, things are going—fine. Great, actually. You know, I couldn't be happier."

"Thank goodness."

Using my most defensive techniques to avoid getting trapped by Bridget's conversational skills, I left the pitch in a hurry before any of my teammates could finish changing.

It was raining again, but instead of Apparating home, I ended up at NAME cemetery, almost without really meaning to go there.

Not really caring that my clothes were getting progressively wetter, I meandered through a familiar path across a hill and two rights past the old willow tree.

I stopped when I saw a well-known sight.

**JACLYN McCOY**

**December 21, 1960—May 14, 1999**

**Beloved Wife**

**Devoted Mother**

"Hey, Mum."

I bent down to kneel on the sodden grass as I ran my fingers over the engraved letters. "Sorry I didn't bring you flowers, or something. I wasn't really anticipating a visit. I know I should try to come see you more, but life—well, you know how it is sometimes."

I looked up at the sky and smiled sadly. "Dad had a heart attack. He's okay, though. Healer Baccari was able to patch him right up. He just has to keep up with the extra appointments and diet now. But you know Dad. He'd rather die eating a burger than live forever on soy. He's really trying though, so you'll have to wait a bit longer to be reunited. I know it's selfish, but I'm pretty glad for that.

"Ayden is doing good. His kids are almost as tall as my waist now. I wish you would have met Billy and Sarah.

"Brendan and Melissa still haven't gotten married. Dad reckons it's just because Brendan is too stupid to realize what he's got. And, hell—er, sorry, heck—even Collin is thinking about proposing. I don't know too much about this new girl. Her name is either Sasha or Sam or something with an 'S'. I reckon I should probably figure it out for sure if she's gonna join the fam. If you were still here, we'd probably hate her and say she's not good enough for him. Though, sometimes I think that whoever has to marry Collin deserves an Order of Merlin First Class.

"Let's see...oh! Nora is engaged. You never got to meet the bloke, but, then again, you've never met Nora, either. Anyway, I think you'd like him. His name is Carter Abrams, and he almost always remembers to put the toilet seat down.

"And, well, I'm….I'm….Shit, Mum, I'm not doing too good. I kinda managed to muck up everything. Remember when I was five, and you were tucking me in one night? I was all upset because the boys were downstairs having a sleepover, and I wasn't invited. Well, I remember you had just given me a bath 'cause you were combing back my hair. And you told me that I didn't need to be upset because I was—you said I was your little girl and that made me perfect.

"I don't remember much, Mum, but that's always how I think of you. You asked me then what would make me happy, and I said that I wanted to be the best Quidditch player ever so that they would all be jealous and regret not inviting me to their parties. And then you took me to go get a broom and helped teach me how to fly.

"But Quidditch isn't like it was back then, Mum. It used to be so simple. I knew who I was when I was flying. But now, everything is…muddled. I've done things…I've lied. I've cheated. I had sex with someone else's boyfriend. It's like I don't even know who I am anymore, and I hate it. I hate myself."

I was grateful for the rain because it blended in with my tears.

"Oh, Mum," I sobbed, my voice cracking as I sniffed. "I wish you were still alive so that you could tell me what to do. I'm just so lost. I need you."

But just as there were limitations to life, there were limitations to magic and to wishes, and my mum never showed up to give me instructions. I stayed up all night thinking, and the next morning, I went back down to the pitch before practice began to speak to Richard Cooke.

I got there even before Grace, his secretary, arrived, and was pacing around his waiting room when he finally showed up.

"Oho! Miss McCoy! What a pleasure. How may I help you this fine morning, dear?'

"I've got a matter to discuss with you, sir."

Cooke clapped his hands together and then opened the golden double doors to his office. "By all means, come on in."

He indicated for me to take a seat with an ostentatious gesture towards the chair opposite his desk before flitting around his small bar and pouring a few drinks. "I do hope you enjoy a good milkshake in the morning, Hayley. I find that it's the perfect way to begin a splendid day!"

Still standing, I crossed my arms over my chest. "Sir, I asked to speak with you because I wanted you to know that I am quitting Puddlemere."

Two goblets full of strawberry milkshake splattered to the floor. "Miss McCoy! Great Scott!"

"I know it's rather sudden, but I feel it is necessary."

"But whatever happened? You seemed so enthusiastic about the sport! Why the change?"

"It's private."

Cooke sighed deeply and sat down on his chair. "And I can't make you reconsider? If this is a ploy to get a raise—"

"No, sir," I cut him off, a bit offended that he would suggest such a thing. Though, given my recent sins, I could not altogether be unsurprised.

"But what about your contract?"

"You can keep the rest of my year's salary. I understand if you want me to pay some sort of fine for reneging on the terms."

"No, that won't be necessary. Bridget speaks so highly of you; I'd hate to upset her by getting the Ministry involved."

"Thank you, sir."

Cooke frowned in his golden chair. The sun was rising and was visible in the glass windows behind his desk; it lit up the whole Quidditch pitch, making the golden goal posts glimmer.

"Well, I can't say this makes me very happy, but it seems I have no choice. I'm not going to force someone to play if she no longer wants to. And you're sure this is what you want?"

I thought back to my first meeting in this office and how eager I was to begin playing. Thinking about that moment felt like I was watching a clip from someone else's life.

"It's what I need," I answered.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_

_Hey hey! Danica here. Sorry to disappoint. So this is what it's like to be one chapter away from the end. Thanks to everyone for reading thus far and reviewing with lovely answers to our ridiculous questions! Speaking of... Molly would like to know which is better for her future blog: livejournal or tumblr? What's your dream musical role (Lucy Harris from Jekyll & Hyde! Molly prefers Christine Daae)? What's the favorite place you've gone to for vacation? What's your favorite name? Well, thanks for reading! Now please review! Happy fanfictioning to all!_

_~Danica_


	13. Final Sprint

_SAAS INSTANT REPLAY:_

_Cooke frowned in his golden chair. The sun was rising and was visible in the glass windows behind his desk; it lit up the whole Quidditch pitch, making the golden goal posts glimmer._

_"Well, I can't say this makes me very happy, but it seems I have no choice. I'm not going to force someone to play if she no longer wants to. And you're sure this is what you want?"_

_I thought back to my first meeting in this office and how eager I was to begin playing. Thinking about that moment felt like I was watching a clip from someone else's life._

_"It's what I need," I answered._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen<strong>

**Final Sprint**

* * *

><p>Frowning, I tilted the mug to avoid getting too much foam head as I filled beer orders at the tap.<p>

My last nine orders had been beer. That was one of my least favorite things to serve—apart from fruity drinks. It lacked originality; mixing drinks was an art form, not a menial chore.

Yet, these days, it was hard to see much of a difference.

"Here you go, lads," I said, pulling my mouth into a semblance of a polite smile while thrusting their drinks at them.

"Oh, love, you got a name?" one of the blokes in the group of young men asked.

"Yeah, it's My-Dad-Owns-This-Pub-I've-Got-Three-Older-Brothers-And-I-Don't-Need-Any-Of-Them-To-Kick-Your-Ass," I replied dully.

Despite my lackluster performance, the bloke seemed to get the message because his leer faded and he went back to snickering with his mates.

"Oi, Miss! Over here, please!"

I shoved a piece of hair back into my slapdash ponytail and walked over to the gentleman getting on in years and a bit wider in girth. "What can I get ya?"

"Just a beer will be fine."

"Great."

"Oh, and Miss! Could you put one of those little umbrellas in it? I know it doesn't go with the drink, I just like 'em."

I bit down on my tongue. "Course. Comin' right at ya." With a frustrated sigh, I went to go make his drink.

For nearly two weeks I had been back here full-time at nights. Dad was still weak, so even though he was not thrilled about my current unemployment status, he graciously let me man the bar.

Some of my favorite customers stopped in, and it was fun to see them at first and chat for a while and catch up. However, most of the nights had been filled with the same, usual blokes doing the same, usual thing: getting drunk and pissing off their wives, who were waiting for them to get home.

I think Dad had said something to my brothers because none of them had mentioned much about my resignation from Puddlemere. Normally, they would have taken the mickey out of me for days for something far less consequential.

I did not really appreciate their recent displays of tact and consideration, however. I felt like some mental case that had just escaped from St. Mungo's.

Even Dad was treating me like I was a bottle of open Firewhiskey next to a blow torch. When I told him the news, explaining an edited version of my life recently, he was flabbergasted and readily demanded why I would do something so stupid, but after I told him that I just could not handle it anymore he, oddly enough, dropped it.

I almost wished that he had freaked out more—yelled at me or told me that if I did not march right back to Cooke's office and beg for my job back he would disinherit me. Yet, Dad decided to let it rest.

"I feel different after the heart attack, Hayles," he explained. "Some things don't seem as important anymore. Did I think that Quidditch was the most important thing to you? Your biggest love? Yes. But that's no reason to stay on the team if it was making you miserable. Cause there is something more important than lovin' somethin', Hayles, and that's lovin' yourself enough to take care of yeh. Otherwise, you're just pourin' yerself a glass of scotch and pourin' it on the floor."

So now speaking of Quidditch was more taboo than saying You-Know-Who's name during the War. We had never had a more awkward conversation around Dad's table than this past Sunday at dinner.

Still, even though my family was trying to protect me from finding out news, I found out about how the team was doing. The press had certainly not remained quiet. According to Nora, who read through some of the rubbish every now and again, I was leaving the team to go take care of the love child I had fostered with Bryce, having cheated on Jack, Oliver, and a Beater on the Tornadoes named Rupert McClintock.

Xavier Pryce had replaced me as the third Chaser. He seemed decent enough, but though I had never seen him fly, I had a hunch that he could not fake a pass or tackle players as well as I could.

We—or rather Puddlemere since Fletcher had confiscated my Zenith and I was officially no longer affiliated with the team—had managed to win its last two matches so it was still in good shape for the Euro Cup. Unfortunately, the first match against the Magpies was only accomplished by a lucky catch from Bridget, and the second match versus the Gorodok Gargoyles was accomplished by an even narrower point margin.

If they were going to beat the Wasps this Saturday, they needed to score a hell of a lot more goals.

I tried not to hear Fletcher's voice barking in my ear and telling me about the Wasps's Chaser Kenneth Sartino's tendon injury in his left arm or Chuck Donahue, the Keeper, and his tendency to favor the left hoop. Instead, I turned off the tap and stuck a bloody umbrella in some bloke's lager.

My life was back in McCoy's, where I belonged before I had gotten mixed up in all that rubbish. Now all I had to concentrate on was mixing that right drink for the endless onslaught of faceless, pissed customers and fishing tips out of the peanuts baskets at the end of the night.

"Fuck," I whispered under my breath.

"Thank you, Miss," the bloke said when he took his drink from me. "Say, you couldn't steal me a few of those maraschino cherries, could you?"

"I'm on it."

The rest of the night passed in much of the same fashion. The bloke with the cherries finally stopped pretending he wanted beer and, with a flushed face, asked for a "cranberry vodka—but hold the vodka and just put in seltzer."

It was probably the highlight of my night.

Dad came down from his flat to help me close up. I tried to get him to go back to bed, but he insisted so I had him sit down and dry glasses as I wiped down the tables and mopped the floor.

"You okay, girl?" he asked me when he finished the last glass and had them all arranged neatly behind the bar.

"Sure, why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, Hayles—Ellenore Webb, it's wonderful to see you, girl!"

Nora laughed and walked over to give my dad a kiss on the cheek. "You too, Mr. McCoy. How've you been? How's the heart?"

"Better now that you're here."

"Oh, hush," Nora waved him off with an added look in my direction, for I was miming throwing up onto the freshly mopped floor.

"You still dating that boy?"

"I'm marrying that boy," Nora corrected him. "You still holdin' onto the idea that Collin is gonna marry me?"

"I always wanted another daughter."

"Hello! I am standing right here, holding a mop I just used to clean your pub."

"Ahh, yes, ain't she a vision," Dad commented mistily, setting his gaze on my wet jeans, baggy t-shirt, and sloppy hair.

"Quite," agreed Nora. "One that I really must take with me. You ready to head home, _kisa_?"

It took a while to shake off Dad, but eventually we got ourselves home. Nora's surprise visit was one that I really appreciated.

I thought that going back to working just nights would mean that we would get to spend more time with each other for a change.

However, with her hospital shifts always getting longer and planning for the wedding, Nora was around less than ever, and I was stuck home alone like a dog.

I supposed I should have realized this was what was going to happen. Nora was not going to suddenly stop her life just because I could hang around the flat more. She had shit to do, whereas, I—well, I was an ice cube in the glass of whiskey that is life.

"You hungry, Hayley? I'm feeling a bit peckish after the twelve-hour shift. I'll make something chocolate," she tempted tantalizingly.

"No, that's okay."

"Are you sure? You never turn down offers for food."

"Yeah, I'm just not that hungry. Look, I'm tired. I'm going to call it a night. See you in the morning."

I left Nora, standing bewildered in our tiny kitchen, and then collapsed into bed.

Since I had not gotten home that night until about two in the morning, I slept until noon the following day.

According to the note left on the kitchen table, Nora had already left for work and she was worried—the note did not explicitly state that but the vast assortment of specialty muffins she left did.

I did not need to be back at the pub until six to start setting up for the night so I took a shower, dressed into my rattiest sweats, and then sat around doing nothing all day. I had not cleaned my room in ages and the shower could really do with a good scrubbing, but it was amazing how much time I could waste when I put my mind to it. By the time I seriously started thinking about chores, I already had to get changed or else I was going to be late for work.

It was shaping up to be a pretty dull night. There had been two gin and tonics, five rum and Cokes, one Sidecar, three Bloody Marys, eight meads, three ales, twenty-seven beers, and one, lone appletini.

I was wiping down the beer taps with my back turned to the customers when I heard my name being called yet again.

"Miss! Excuse me, Miss! Could I please have a glass of chocolate milk?"

I rolled my eyes, preparing myself to deal with whatever cheeky tosser I was going to have to deal with next.

"Jack?" I gasped in amazement when I saw him. "Holy shit! Jack Copeland, are you really here right now?" I asked as I scurried over to him. I smiled at his familiar light hair, blue eyes, and warm smile. "I can't believe you're here," I blurted out.

"Should I not have come?"

"No! No!" I insisted emphatically. "I'm thrilled you're here. I just can't seem to believe it. Damn."

Jack smiled wider, and I pulled him into a hug over the bar.

His muscles tensed a bit, so I pulled away.

"Oh, er, sorry," I apologized.

"No, it's fine," he assured me politely. "Just haven't seen you in a while. I forgot how pretty you are."

I smacked his arm and then showed him the faint scarring on the back of my hand from my third year. "You're not supposed to tell lies, Jack."

"Then I guess it would be remiss of me not to mention how much I've missed you, Hayley."

The smile that had taken over my face faltered since the first time I had spotted him. "I miss you, too. Is it awful to say that I expected that someone would have come to see me before this?"

"I would have," Jack promised, "but Fletcher has us practicing practically night and day to get the new team dynamic down. Sometimes I feel like pulling an Oliver and just sleeping in the Lab."

I jiggled my knee against the row of shelves under the bar.

"We did have a bit of a break tonight, though, so I thought I'd take a chance and see if you were here."

"Yeah, well, this is my gig again," I said lamely as I looked around at the dark green walls and drunken blokes. What pride and love I always felt for McCoy's seemed to morph into embarrassment and humility with Jack, a professional Quidditch player, sitting there. "Wait..." I realized. "Did you mention it to anyone else? Why are you alone?"

Jack fiddled with the bendy straw in his glass of chocolate milk I had handed him.

"Just stop worrying about sparing my feelings and tell me."

Jack looked up at me with apologetic eyes. "Well, no one else really wanted to come. Bridget and Oliver are having a—"

"I don't care about them," I cut him off quickly. "What about Des? Bryce? Connor?"

"Well, Des is a bit pissed to be honest. She hasn't mentioned you much, but I think she's really hurt."

My stomach sank like I had just downed some warm ale.

"And as for Bryce, well, I think he knows best of us all how well Des can hold a grudge so he's actually not pressing any buttons on the issue. I reckon Connor would fancy a visit, but he has so much to take care of at home and with the extra practice time, he just does not have time."

I thought about all the nothing I had done in the flat today and felt still worse.

"But I'm here!" Jack added, trying to sound cheerful.

"Thanks," I said earnestly.

"Well, you're still my friend, Hayley," Jack said. "And I still care about you—not in the way you're thinking—well not as much. There's actually this one reporter for _Quidditch Weekly_—I think she might have made a mistake and thought she was coming up to Oliver at first, but—"

"That's great, Jack."

His ears turned red as he folded his hands onto his lap. "Thanks," he said bashfully. "Though, of course, not much has happened beyond that first meeting because I've been so busy."

"How is the new bloke? Pryce?"

"He's a decent flyer," Jack answered, smiling at how I was very nearly gnawing off my tongue. "Not as good as you, of course. He has a nice arcing shot that confuses a lot of Keepers, but to be honest, I don't really care for him." Jack leaned in closer to me over the bar and then said in a scandalized whisper, "He tells a lot of untoward jokes at the expense of women."

I tried very hard not to laugh in his face. "Bryce did that all the time!"

"Yes, well, it's different when Bryce does it," Jack persisted. "I don't know. I suppose you would have to be there."

Some bloke at the other end of the bar started calling for me, but I ignored him. "Well, at least you won the last two matches. What has Fletch said about the chances for the one against the Wasps? It's everything we've been working toward for the Euro Cup all year."

Jack shifted in his seat and played with the straw in his almost empty glass. "Hayley, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm not really supposed to discuss what is said in team meetings with—well, with people who are not on the team."

I had been hunching over the bar in an eagerly alert position, but at this statement I swung back onto my heels. "Oh."

Jack's forehead crinkled in concern. "Please don't take that the wrong way, Hayley! It's only—"

"No, it's fine. I understand," I reassured him, looking over to the end of the bar where that bloke was still trying to get my attention.

Jack looked over and then back at me. "Well, it looks like I've distracted you enough for one night." He pulled his arms through the sleeves of his jacket as he began to stand up.

I frowned. "What? You're leaving? Already?"

"Sorry, Hayley, I've got to wake up early tomorrow. I'll try to come back soon and visit you here."

I noticed that he was fishing for a few knuts, and I waved my hand dismissively. "On the house," I insisted.

Jack smiled thankfully and then pulled me into another hug over the bar. "Don't worry about the Wimbourne Wasps, Hayley. We'll be fine."

I said goodbye and then watched him leave before trudging to the end of the bar where the bloke crankily demanded a refill for his appletini.

The excitement of seeing Jack wore off quickly after his departure, and I was left feeling glummer than ever. I felt torn between desperately wanting to strategize about the Wasps match and chiding myself for pathetically not being able to let go.

Therefore, it was altogether unsurprising when I latched onto Sammy Willins's conversation with the bloke beside him as soon as I heard the word "Puddlemere" leave his mouth.

Trying to appear nonchalant, I moved closer to them under the guise of needing to wipe off the bar.

"—well, as I was saying, Johnny Fletcher is mad if he thinks that the shoddy Chasing lately is going to be enough to best the Wasps. They've been ranked in the top three teams in the League all season. They've got some of the strongest defense in the world right now."

"And especially with how poorly Wood's been doing lately."

"Yes! I've heard from a friend who is close with the team that there's been a lot of instability among the team members lately. Fat lot of help, that is. So long to the Euro Cup! Puddlemere has as good a chance of beating the Wasps as I do of becoming Minister of Magic. Ahh! Speak of the devil! Miss McCoy!"

I started and the rag I had been holding stilly in my hand fell to the floor. I clambered to retrieve it. "Oh, er, hi, Mr. Willins."

"Do you have any insight to share, pet?"

"Yeah!" chimed in Sammy's companion. "What's the real scoop?"

"Oh, er, I dunno. I'm not allowed to know stuff anymore," I mumbled quickly.

Sammy paused for a moment before laughing. "Oh! You almost had me there! Well, keep your secrets, if you must. This is such a comfort, really. Without some kind of secret plan, I was certain Puddlemere was destined for defeat!"

I grunted noncommittally.

"Another bourbon, please, Miss McCoy? And another scotch for my friend Geoffrey while you're at it!"

I stayed up nearly all night, pacing around my bedroom, the kitchen, Nora's bedroom, and the bathroom. Finally, I could no longer stand the oppressive walls of our tiny flat so I threw an old sweatshirt of Ayden's on and went running.

I ran without thinking—just letting my pounding feet and steady breathing guide me—and ended up at the Puddlemere stadium as the darkness of night started to lighten into the beginnings of a new dawn.

At first, I contemplated turning around and running back home, but instead I gritted my teeth and went in.

Despite myself, I could not help but to feel a familiar sense of home when surrounded by the muddy grass, golden stands, and navy blue banners.

I walked up the stands and then climbed all the way up to the top box, sitting down to admire the view from such a great height.

As the sun started to peak out from underneath the purple clouds, a figure came onto the pitch. It was still dark, but when the person started flying, I knew from the style that it was Oliver.

Embarrassed, as though I had finally realized that I was loitering on a private pitch with no real explanation as to why I was there, I sank down into my chair, wishing I had paid more attention in school and knew how to do a disillusionment charm properly.

After a few minutes, however, I forgot to hide and found myself entranced by watching Oliver do swirling loops, dives, and turns about the pitch. He was rounding one of the goal hoops when suddenly he rolled off his broom.

Gasping, I stood up to see if he was okay. To my immense relief, he was still holding on to the broom with his hands, his entire body dangling underneath him.

Unfortunately, the noise must have echoed in the empty sky because his head turned suddenly in my direction.

Positively mortified and dreading what would happen if he discovered that I was here, I leapt off my seat, ducked down my head, and started sprinting down the twisting stairs to get out of the pitch. I had already gone down three flights of stairs when I heard his voice calling.

"Oi! Whoever you are! This is a closed pitch! You're not supposed to be spying on practice. I'll notify the Ministry. Do you work for the Wasps?"

From the very Scottish tone of his voice, I knew that he was angry enough that he was not going to let this go. With a sigh, I climbed up a few stairs as I walked back into the nearest box so that he would be able to see me.

Perhaps it was the Gryffindor in me rearing its mangy head again after a few weeks of absence, but I knew there would be at least some honor in voluntarily showing myself instead of running away.

"I'm not a spy for the Wimbourne Wasps. You can unclench," I announced lamely.

"Hayley?" he gasped as he nearly lost his grip on his broom. Oliver righted himself and then straightened up. "What are you doing here, McCoy?"

"I'm sorry," I apologized quickly. "I was out running, and then here I was so I just came up to sit for a little while. I didn't think I'd be here this long or that I'd run into anyone." The words gushed out of my mouth and when I finished firing them out, I no longer felt contrite. I felt angry. "Though, I don't think I should have to explain myself to you."

"And why is that?"

"Well, you've been ignoring me for a few weeks now so it's obvious that you don't care what I do."

Oliver was on his feet and striding towards me so quickly that I had to take a step back. "You reckon I'm the one ignoring you? You quit the bloody team!"

"Oh, don't get all indignant now, Wood! You sat back and did nothing this whole time, you bloody coward! You saw me floundering on the pitch, and yet you let me fly worse! You were supposed to be my Captain! You were supposed to—"

"Do what? What exactly do you want, Hayley?"

"Why did you leave?" I asked, needing violently to know the reason. "That night at the bar, why did you go?"

Oliver put his broom down onto a bench and crossed his arms over his chest. "Don't act all offended. You made it perfectly clear you wanted me out of there."

"What? I never—"

"Made me feel like an idiot?" Oliver interrupted. "Well, how did you think I'd feel? There I was, spilling out my guts to you, we have sex—something I do not take lightly—and then you leave me there alone like some cheap roll in the sack so you could hide and pretend it never happened. Excuse me if I did not want to stick around after that."

"I wasn't hiding!" I shouted furiously. "I went upstairs to piss, you tosser!"

"Yeah, well…..what?" Oliver said, frowning. "You mean, you weren't just kicking me out?"

"No, but I should have!" I insisted angrily as I moved closer to him, my voice getting louder. "Cause our night together obviously meant a lot to you if you had sex with me while you were still dating Bridget."

"Dammit, Hayley, I told you I broke things off with her."

"You looked pretty still together afterwards," I told him coolly.

"Fuck, Hayley, I told you the truth!" Oliver insisted as he grabbed my shoulders.

"Let go of me!" I shrieked as I pushed him away forcibly.

Oliver stumbled, cursing under his breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep sigh before turning to me with a tired expression. "You can hate me all you want, but I really did break up with Bridget before anything happened between us. What you saw later was just her having some trouble letting go. We've been together for so long that I think she was too hung up on all the plans she had made and didn't want to let those go and start over. Did she try to get back together with me? Yes. But I didn't because I don't want to be a wanker who strings a girl along. So don't lecture me about that night because I thought after admitting that I was in love with you—"

"You never said you loved me," I cut him off.

"I didn't? Well, surely, you must have picked up on it."

"I'm literal. If you didn't say it, how was I supposed to know? And if you loved me so damn much, why haven't you said any of this to me? Why didn't you try to stop me from quitting Puddlemere? Why didn't you visit me in the hospital after I fell?"

"I did visit you in the hospital!" Oliver hissed. "Merlin, I sat by your bloody bedside and held your fucking hand! And as for your quitting, I just never thought you'd do it. I thought Quidditch meant more to you than that. That girl—the one who I caught cheering for herself in any empty pitch that very first practice…."

He trailed off as a smile graced his features, but then it disappeared as he looked back up at me and swallowed roughly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "We're going to lose against the Wasps on Saturday. I try to stay positive—be a good captain. But we're going to lose."

And then without another word, Oliver grabbed his broom and soared back into the sky.

I turned around and started running again.

I kept running until I reached the very top of the line in front of the Welcome Witch's desk. My hips collided into a very broad, haughty looking woman who started shouting affronts, but I ignored her.

Hands bracing the desk, I panted heavily while the Welcome Witch eyed me with boredom.

"They can fix whatever spell damage that's been done to you on the fourth floor," she murmured as she flicked through her copy of _Witch Weekly_.

"Ellenore Webb," I spat out through breaths. "I need you to tell me where Ellenore Webb is interning today."

The witch looked up from her magazine with narrowed eyes. "That's disclosed information. I can't tell you that."

I grabbed her arm and squeezed it tightly. "Listen, you bint, I need to know where Ellenore Webb is working. Right. Now."

"Second floor, Nigellus Ward," she cried.

"Thank you," I said pointedly. I had released her arm and begun sprinting towards the stairs before I heard her nasally voice again, most likely saying something derogatory about my character.

When I reached the second floor, I weaved through corridors, navigating by the signs on the walls as I called out Nora's name.

Every time I passed a figure in green robes, I checked them out briefly to see if it was her. "Nora!" I yelled when I passed through the doors to the Nigellus Ward. "Nora! Has anyone seen Ellenore Webb?" I barged into an older man in green robes. "Excuse me, sir, have you seen Ellenore Webb?"

"Nora? Last I saw her she was in room 206B."

I looked up at the sign that labeled the walls along the intersection. "206B? Thanks!" I hissed as I started bustling down the corridor on my right.

"Wait, Miss! You're not allowed—"

"Nora?" I bellowed. "Nora? Where the hell are you? Ellenore!"

A door closed to my left, and Nora emerged, looking confused. "Hayley?" she said when she saw me. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

"Don't worry about it. That's not important right now—"

"It is important. Very important, I'd say. This is supposed to be a closed ward for people with scrofungulus. How'd you even get up here?"

"Please, Nora, just listen to me."

Nora put her hands on her hips and looked at me defiantly. "I'm sorry, Hayley, but I want my questions answered first. I realize that you don't have a lot going on right now, but I could get in trouble if someone looking for me is wreaking havoc. Some of us actually have to worry about keeping our jobs."

I stepped back in shock. "Wow."

Nora's eyes immediately turned contrite, and she wrapped me into a hug. "Oh, _der'mó_. I'm sorry, Hayles. That was a really horrid thing for me to say. I've just been so tired lately with all these extra shifts and planning for the wedding. I wasn't thinking."

"No, I wasn't, as usual," I joked lamely, glossing over the hurt, as I pulled away from her. "This is a hospital, after all. How are you supposed to save lives with dunderheads like me barreling around?"

A healer walked by and looked pointedly at Nora, who turned red. "I don't want to be even more of a_ suka_, but I do have to get back to work. What did you want?"

"Did Oliver really come visit me when I was unconscious in the hospital?"

Nora's shoulders sagged. "Who told you?"

"He did. Believe it or not, this isn't my first breaking and entering of the morning."

Nora's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Oliver told you? But he's the one who asked us not to mention anything about him visiting. And I guess that I was so distracted with worrying about you and your Dad that I forgot. But I remember now. It was right in the beginning before your brothers even got there. Your dad was out getting tests done. _Chërt_, he was shaking the whole time, white as a ghost. Why are you smiling?"

I kissed her forehead. "Thanks, Nora. If anyone gives you any crap, tell them I'm a patient who escaped from the fourth floor!"

Nonplussed, Nora stared at me as I turned around and started running again. "Hayley!" she hollered after me. "Where are you going now?"

"I owe you big!"

Despite the copious amount of running I had already done today, my body did not seem to mind the intense workout. In fact, it encouraged the movement; I had been static for far too long.

There was no one on the pitch when I arrived so I began climbing stairs, two at a time, and then dashed through the hidden nooks and valleys until I found Cooke's office.

Grace, his secretary, looked scandalized when I entered, breathing heavily and sweating wonderfully, but I ignored her and walked straight through the double doors of his office without even knocking first.

Cooke was building a tower out of Exploding Snap cards. When I entered, he knocked it down, and they promptly exploded.

Coughing, while putting out the fire with his wand, Cooke looked up at me from his new standing position. "Miss McCoy? What the devil are you doing here?"

"Sir, I apologize for barging in like this—"

"My goodness! Did you run here? Sit down!"

"But I really needed to speak to you—"

"You look dead on your feet! Let me get you a milkshake or something to drink! Sit! Sit!"

Frustrated with his mollycoddling, I stood behind the proffered chair and slammed its hind legs down to get his attention. "Sir, I'd like to rejoin the team," I announced loudly when I had his attention.

"Rejoin my team?"

"Yes."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

Cooke sighed deeply and sat down at his desk. "You do realize, Miss McCoy, that you quit my team."

"Yes, I realize that," I answered tonelessly.

"And that you broke a legally binding contract."

"Yes," I admitted sheepishly.

"And that in the wake of your absence that I've hired a new player to take up the empty position."

"Oh, sir! Xavier Pryce can't play half as well as I can! Please! I know I don't deserve it, but give me another go!"

"Miss McCoy, please sit down," Cooke requested.

I sat.

"Drink this," he ordered as he poured me a milkshake from the dispenser on his desk. "You look far too peaky."

I tipped back some of the drink without really tasting it and then wiped the residue from my lips. Staring at Cooke, I realized that he did not seem half as jolly as the last time I had seen him. Actually, he looked quite harried and really rather tired.

"Miss McCoy, two days ago my daughter informed me that this will be her last season with Puddlemere. Apparently, now that she and Oliver are no longer together, there is nothing holding her back from moving on with what she wants. Two weeks ago you sat in that very chair upon which you are now sitting and told me you could no longer play Quidditch."

"But, sir, I've changed!" I insisted.

"Changed how?"

I bit down on my tongue. "I'm not really sure I can explain."

"Well, in all honesty, Miss McCoy, that does not really inspire me to let you join the team again. I lost quite a bit of money on you."

I closed my eyes and did my very best to find the right words that would make him understand. "I thought—I thought that Quidditch was the only thing I had to offer. Like, if I wasn't playing Quidditch, I really wasn't worth anything. Why else would people like me?"

In my head, I silently thought of Oliver, whom I had only met because of Quidditch.

"And when life got more intense with Dad and, uh, everything else, my playing turned to shit. I thought I was going that way too. So I quit 'cause if I couldn't even play well, then what was I?

"But I've realized that I'm not just Quidditch. Sure, I might not have music or charities or, hell, even milkshakes going for me, but that doesn't mean I've got nothing. I've got me, and part of me is that I love Quidditch and I'm damn good at it. I need it. It's the adrenaline, the sweat, the competition. God, please, sir, let me back on the team."

The shaky adrenaline pumping through me began to diffuse as I waited, heart leaping in my throat, for him to say something back.

Cooke observed me coolly before finally rubbing his palms together and laughing heartily.

My stomach sank. My back collapsed into the chair. Once again, I had shown off my naiveté.

"You know, Hayley, I reckon that's the most I've ever heard you speak."

"That's not an answer," I pressed.

"Well, as long as we are being honest, I ought to mention that I would very much like to have Bridget leave her professional Quidditch career with a Euro Cup Championship under her hat."

"I'll get it done, sir."

Cooke chuckled as he ate the cherry floating at the top of his milkshake. "And I'd be docking your pay."

"I'll pay you!" I offered rashly until recanting. "Scratch that. You should see the shit sofa I've got. Wait—does this mean you'll let me rejoin?"

"I'll need to speak with Fletcher before I can tell you anything substantial."

I nodded eagerly and then grew impatient with the fact that he was still sitting in his office when outside his grand windows I could see that the players had returned to the pitch and were zooming around on their Zeniths. "Well?"

"Oho!" laughed Cooke. "Do you really fancy interrupting John Fletcher during practice three days before we play the Wimbourne Wasps? I'll speak to him later. I'll let you know soon enough."

Sensing that my luck was beginning to wear out, I stood up and shook his hand with gusto. "I'll be at practice tomorrow morning at six sharp," I called over my shoulder as I began to leave his office.

"But, Miss McCoy, I didn't say—"

"I'm coming anyway!" I hollered before closing the door behind me. I looked over at Grace and gave her a broad smile. "Isn't it just the damndest day?"

As soon as I left the pitch, I ran into the nearest Muggle phone booth and dialed the number to Dad's flat. "Dad? You there? Good. I just wanted to let you know that I'm playing Quidditch again."

"Well, it's about damn time," I heard his gravelly voice grumble into the phone. "I thought your ass would never figure that one out. What'd they say about you rejoining the team?"

My grin refused to dwindle as I pressed the phone closer to my ear. "Right, well, I'm still working on the detail bits."

And the following morning when I showed up to the pitch, pads on and Nimbus in hand, I was making an effort to figure out those details as I marched right up to Fletcher.

"McCoy!" he barked, tugging at his cap. "What are you doing on my field?"

"Didn't Cooke tell you, sir, I—"

"I don't care about the official arrangements. You walked out on my practice, McCoy. You insulted me and disrespected me. Cooke can say whatever the hell he wants, it doesn't mean I'm letting you fly for me again."

I closed my eyes. Fletch was being a stubborn drunk. I knew how to deal with those. "Please, Coach," I said quietly, yet earnestly. "I was a right prat, and I know it. But I fly better than Pryce. I know all of the plays. I can help you beat the Wasps."

Grumbling softly to himself, Fletcher walked over to an equipment chest and retrieved a Quaffle, which he hurled at me.

I caught it before it hit me and then spun it around with my fingertips.

"Throw that to me," he ordered.

I took a deep breath, concentrated on a relaxing memory of running, and threw the ball at him. My elbow made no appearance in the throw.

"Again."

Fletcher made me do it nineteen more times before he had to admit that my throwing problems were absent. Of course, he chose not to admit this and settled for not throwing the Quaffle back to me. Realizing that he was not going to do anything else, I started up on offense again.

"C'mon, Fletch, let me back on the team. We both know I can do it. We're just wasting time being stubborn. The team will be here soon," I added, pointing out the light starting to peak out from underneath the dark clouds.

"No one gets on my team without a tryout, McCoy," Fletcher replied gruffly. "If you want in, you're going to have to challenge Pryce for the spot."

My face broke out into a gigantic grin. "Thank you, Coach," I exclaimed, so elated that I almost reached out to hug him. "Does that mean I can have my Zenith back?"

Fletcher's mouth curled into a smirk as he eyed the Nimbus by my feet. "No way in hell, McCoy."

Fletcher forced me to go hide myself in the stands so that I would not distract his players. "Like the rest of the spectators," he growled at me.

I watched enviously as the team arrived for the day—Oliver merely walking down the steps from the path leading to the Lab—and listened to Fletcher's morning pep talk.

After a few minutes, Fletcher sent most of the team to go trudge through the stands. I tried not to laugh when I heard Bryce's voice echo, "I'll give him something Unforgivable."

When only Oliver and Pryce were left on the pitch, Fletcher called me down.

I refused to look at either one of them, determined not to break my concentration. Instead, I kept my gaze fixed resolutely on Fletcher.

"All right, McCoy. I don't have time to waste on a long process so we are going to do this nice and simple. Wood, I want you up in the air now."

In my periphery, I saw him mount his broom and fly off.

Pryce edged closer to me, and I started gnawing on my tongue.

Fletcher threw the Quaffle at Pryce. "Each of you gets one shot. You score against Wood, you get to be on my team. Now let's move it before we waste any more of my time."

Pryce tossed the ball at me. "Ladies first," he insisted.

I shoved the ball at his head. "Fine by me," I replied coolly.

Though watching Pryce made the bile level rise in my throat, perversely, I could not tear my eyes away from every dip and swerve he made. It pained me to admit that he really was not that bad of a flier. Still, I could not help but to feel relieved after a torturous two minutes when Oliver had the Quaffle firmly within his grasp.

My nerves were at a record high when I, Quaffle tucked under my arm, started zooming down the pitch towards the goal posts. My mind was reeling with all I knew about Oliver's technique from watching him so many times.

Unfortunately, unlike so many players, Oliver spent so much time obsessing over his own statistics and weaknesses, that he was unpredictable as hell. As I came closer to the hoops, my pulse quickened as the panic began to overcome me.

Oliver was poised and ready in front of the central hoop.

I took a deep breath, hunched over on my broom, and then flew straight at him like a bullet.

Noticing what I was about to do, Oliver, too, shot towards me.

Right before we were about to collide, I tightened my grip on the Quaffle, pulled my right fist back, and then punched his face.

As he swerved, I pulled up on my broom and then launched the Quaffle at the center hoop.

Watching the Quaffle fall pass through the hoop and then down towards the ground, I let out a shaky breath and then a frenzied scream.

"WOOD!" bellowed Fletcher loudly from the stands, distracting me from my elation. "Did you let her score?"

I looked over at Oliver, who was clutching the lower part of his face with a slow grin.

"As the bruise forming on my jaw will attest, I didn't let her do anything, Fletch!" Oliver called, looking at me when he said it.

I smiled back at him, ignoring Pryce's swears echoing throughout the pitch.

A half an hour later, Fletcher had the team congregated on the grass. My Zenith was once again in my grasp.

"So we're all going to need to train that much harder to get McCoy up to snuff on the most recent plays. Bridget, Faust, and Stone, I want you working with Deering. Wood, you're training with Murphy. Copeland, O'Reilly, you lot are going to work with me. Any questions?"

I looked out at my teammates. Jack was beaming beside Connor, who looked perfectly bemused. Bridget, as alarmingly beautiful as ever, seemed politely astonished.

Des was engrossed in picking her scabs, refusing to look at me. I would have to fix that later.

"Well," drawled Bryce, donning a smirk. "I'd like to take a moment to welcome Hayles back to the team and perhaps offer her a good luck spanking? Ouch, Des! I was just trying to diffuse the tension!"

Bryce scowled and rubbed his ribs gingerly. "Fine, you lot can all be hardasses for all I care. Let's go play some sodding Quidditch."

Practice involved long hours of learning complicated maneuvers, falling down a fair few times, and accidentally elbowing Jack in the nose twice.

When it was over, I limped into the girls' locker room and headed for the shower. Every single muscle in my body ached and throbbed. I could barely find the energy to use soap. It was wonderful.

I felt a bit awkward when Des had already left and it was just Bridget and me in the common area, but I was determined not to let things fester from now on. "Hey, Bridge, I heard this is going to be your last year?"

Bridget stopped twisting her hair into some sort of loop on the top of her head and turned towards me with a sappy smile. "Yeah," she answered. "Daddy is pretty upset about it still, but I think I've been able to convince him that we'll actually be able to spend more time together this way."

"Now that you won't be practicing all the time," I added.

"Exactly!" beamed Bridget. "I'm excited to move on with my life! Think of all the lovely things I'll be able to do! I think I might take some time off to travel. I've always wanted to live in Paris. Plus, I don't know if you've heard—it was all over those wretched gossip magazines."

I laughed awkwardly. "Er, yeah, I don't read those."

"Oliver and I broke up," she explained.

"Oh, um, Bridge, I'm really sorry. That's, er—"

Bridget let out a tinkering laugh. "Oh, Hayley, give me a bit of credit. I dated the bloke for over two years. I think, deep down, I knew he liked you before he did. Maybe that's why I was so determined not to let go. He can be pretty dim if the answer isn't shooting at his face inside a red ball. I promise I don't hate you—well, only a bit."

I bit my lip, not quite sure what exactly Oliver had told her.

"Surprisingly, I think I'm dealing with it a lot better now," Bridget continued. "I mean, Oliver will just never be the right bloke for me, no matter how much I try to get him there. Plus, I think I have a thing for gingers," she added with a giggle.

Despite myself, I grinned. "The wizarding world is surely in for an exciting few months with you single."

Bridget bubbled with laughter. "You've got three older brothers, right?"

"All accounted for."

"Ahh, well," she sighed before straightening her shoulders and putting on a smile. "I'm not single. I'm just going to try dating myself for a bit so that I can get to know me better."

I left the locker room still feeling a bit dazed, but I reckoned that was normal for a conversation with Bridget.

Des was still waiting outside. "Hey," I greeted her carefully. "What are you still doing out here?"

She did not say anything.

"I guess the rumors are true then. Bryce really does take longer on his hair than Bridget does," I joked.

She spat on the ground as she kept her gaze on the fingers she was bandaging.

I laughed weakly. "So, do you hate me now, or something?"

"Or something."

"Well, I get that, and, look, Des, I'm really sorry."

She sucked in her cheeks and looked over her shoulder. "You're not gonna go bat shit crazy and quit again?"

"Wasn't planning on it."

Bryce came out of the locker room then, yapping away about nonsense. Des rolled her eyes as she joined him. Bryce winked at me as they passed and then said something to Des.

"Late, H," Des called over her shoulder.

As the sun began to set behind the clouds, I smiled and then hurried home to rest up before tomorrow's practice.

A woman who happened to play Quidditch professionally for Puddlemere United needed her sleep.

Friday practice was filled with extensive speeches about strategy down to even the most tedious detail and vigorous playing. Fletcher crammed so much into the day that I actually had to eat while listening to new drills being explained in the Lab. We did not stop for the day until it was much too dark to see anything, and Fletcher screamed at us all to go home and rest.

The next morning, I woke up with a twitter of nervous energy and began visualizing all the new drills I had learned while alternating repeating Fletcher's instructions about how to best debilitate the Wasps.

Nora was still at work, but I found some muffins waiting for me along with a note, which promised that she would listen to the match on the radio.

I ate breakfast, showered, dressed, and then headed down to the pitch. Fletcher wanted us all there even earlier than usual for the match at seven in order to talk more strategy.

I did a few quick laps around the pitch and then started stretching. Jack joined me for a bit, and then we went to the Lab together.

Fletcher droned on for nearly three hours. To be honest, even the Quidditch lover in me found it rather hard to stay focused. Bryce had nodded off and was practically drooling onto the table; Jack was looking at Fletcher with glassy eyes. Only Oliver seemed to still be paying rapt attention, and I could not help but smile at the sight.

Only the knowledge that I needed the talk the most joined with Fletcher's use of my last name to punctuate nearly every sentence kept me on track.

My knee jiggled underneath the table as I nodded my assent every few minutes.

I felt ready. I felt strong. I felt powerful.

Deering and Murphy met with us in groups after Fletcher finally put away his diagrams. Tony passed most of the time he was supposed to be lecturing us teasing me.

"But in all seriousness, Hayley, I don't know how you got Fletcher to let you back on the team. He must really like you."

Fletcher shepherded us all down to the break room and snapped at us all to chow down. It was a bit hard to enjoy lunch with him watching us like a hawk, but Bryce kept us entertained. Then, we were led like cattle back down onto the pitch to fly some laps before we were collectively banished to our respective locker rooms to start "doing those ridiculous rituals that take so bloody long" while Fletcher went to meet with the manager of the Wimbourne Wasps.

With anxious anticipation not unlike that of my first match, I carefully dressed into my uniform, celebrating every tie and shoulder pad. After I quadruple checked to make sure that my cleats were triple knotted, I went over to the boys' locker room to meet with Jack and Connor for our usual Bertie Bott's preparation.

"Ooh, chocolate fudge," I murmured appreciatively as I tossed the bag over to Connor.

"Lucky!" exclaimed Jack. "That beat mine. Bleh, sprouts."

"Eat your veggies, son," chided Connor with a sardonic laugh.

"Hayley, you always get the best flavors," Jack said enviously.

"Another thing you've got over Xavier Douche," added Connor dryly.

"What? We didn't let him join in on eating the beans."

At Jack's comment, my heart swelled with love for the two of them.

Connor gave us a shifty grin. "I might have accidentally slipped him a stool-flavored one."

We did not stop laughing until Oliver called us in for one last pep talk.

His Adam's apple was bobbing in his jugular, and his face looked very pale but very fearsome to behold.

"This is it," he announced. "We either win tonight, or all the work we've put in for the Euro Cup has been for naught. We've had some rough patches this season, but we've put that behind us. Now isn't the time for personal issues. Tonight is about playing our hardest, giving every last bit of exertion and then pushing harder. It's about devotion—breaking every bone and then wanting to keep going."

"I think I like it better when he's too nervous to talk," Bryce interrupted with a loud whisper. "Bloody preachy. Talk about Wood that just will not go down."

Des stomped on his foot and then turned to Oliver with an uncharacteristically respectful glance. "Continue."

Oliver scratched the back of his head. "Right. Well, we've got the best damn team in the League and a player here who deserves to go out on a win," he added with a glance at Bridget. "There's a reason we're called Puddlemere United, and that's because this team, this group of seven players standing right here, can beat anyone else as long as we fly together. So let's go out there and do what we do best."

Bryce led everyone in a raucous battle cry as we all moved to huddle at the door to wait for our names to be called.

Oliver caught my eye as I turned to talk to Des. "Hayley," he said. "Watch your elbow."

"Oliver," I replied back in the same intense tone. "Watch yourself."

Cheers exploded outside of the wall, and I watched as Oliver, Connor, and Jack flew out before I joined them. My heart thudded in my chest as I reacquainted myself with the atmosphere of being nearly two hundred feet in the air with 50,000 people watching me.

As the referee prepared everything, I tracked my opponents in their yellow and black robes, sizing them up. I squeezed my three hoop necklace for good luck and then hunched over on my broom before the whistle sounded.

The Wasps Chaser on my left caught the soaring Quaffle. Without pausing to think, Jack and I both flew straight at him, coming from both sides. The bloke tried to dive, where Connor was waiting for him and promptly stole the Quaffle out of his hands.

Immediately, Jack and I soared over to him, and Connor tossed me the ball as we got into our familiar triangle formation, passing the ball between us like we were playing the Muggle game hot potato.

I noticed a Bludger zooming towards Jack, so I hollered out his name. Jack ducked, just in time for Des to send the black ball soaring towards the Wasps's Seeker.

I tossed the Quaffle to Connor, who threw it at Jack as he approached the right hoop. The massive Wasps keeper went straight for him, so Jack hurled the Quaffle over his shoulder. Releasing my hold on my Zenith, I launched myself to the right to catch it, squeezing my broom with my upturned ankles. Still upside down, I chucked it through the unattended left hoop.

Jack scored two goals, and Connor made one, as well. Oliver had managed to block five out of the Wasps' six attempts to score, and I had aided him in his latest save by grabbing the Chaser by the forearms and sending her cartwheeling in the opposite direction.

The referee gave the Wasps a foul, but Oliver blocked it easily enough.

At one point, Bridget pretended that she had spotted the Snitch to distract the Wasps's Keeper, and Connor and Jack were both able to score before he figured it out.

After about an hour of playing, I was yelling my thanks to Bryce, who had just stopped a Bludger from bludgeoning my head, as I darted down the pitch with the Quaffle. Jack was being held up by two of the Wasps's Chasers, and I had no idea where Connor was so I just kept flying.

The third Wasps's Chaser was on my tail so I kept trying to fly riskier paths to shake him. Unfortunately, he was keeping up with me pretty well.

As I neared the goal hoops, he was less than a meter behind me and just in the right position to block my throws. I looked around, trying to discern what to do, when I heard Des call out my name.

I looked up to see a Bludger ricochet off of the right goal hoop and come zooming straight for me. Instantly, I did a sloth grip roll to avoid it, wincing a bit when I heard it collide into the Chaser behind me. Quickly, I flew left and scored again, bringing the score to 160 to 110.

I went to go retrieve the Quaffle when I was forced to break suddenly when the Wasps's Seeker flew past me, a blur of yellow and black. Bridget followed him not a second later, and I could not help put to scream encouragement at her, Quaffle forgotten.

Keeping one eye on the pair, I kept going in my pursuit of the fallen Quaffle, swerving out of the way of a rogue Bludger. I grabbed the Quaffle and was zooming towards Connor when I saw Bridget go into a spectacular dive beside the Wasps's Seeker.

Dangerously close to the grass, they both fought each other for dominance before the other Seeker sideswiped Bridget, sending her falling forward and off her broom.

I froze in horror when she fell about twenty feet to the grass. The Quaffle forgotten, Connor and I raced towards her.

However, to my amazement, Bridget was back on her feet and yelling something.

I struggled to hear her as I flew faster.

"I've got it!" yelled Bridget.

And that was when I noticed the Snitch struggling in her left hand.

Puddlemere United did not stop cheering for the rest of the night. And the next week, we beat the Ballycastle Bats, prolonging the celebration. When we won against the Caerphilly Catapults the following week, I was convinced that life was never going to get quite as good as this past year.

Even Fletcher had a hard time trying to get us to settle down and discuss strategy for the Euro Cup.

After defeating the Catapults, I woke up very early the next day. While anyone else probably would have been confined to bed all day after drinking so much alcohol the night before, I was brimming with excess energy, despite the fact that the sun had still not risen.

I laced up my trainers and went out, finding myself at a familiar park.

I found him stretching along the grassy path.

"Hayley," Oliver said, noticing me as I strolled up to him. "What are you doing here?"

"I dunno," I told him. "I think I just felt like a run, that is, if it's okay with you?"

His face softened as he smoothed a bit of my hair back into my ponytail. "Yeah, that's okay."

"Good."

"You know, Hayley—"

"Oi, Oliver, are we going to talk about our feelings all day, or are we going to run?"

Oliver grinned at my playful smirk. "Well, 24, I think it's more your feelings we need to worry about, seeing as I'm faster than you."

I rolled my eyes and then sped off, leaving him standing there. Laughing, I looked over my shoulder to see that he still had not moved. "Coming?" I called before focusing on the path ahead and stretching my legs out into a full sprint.

* * *

><p><em>AN: hello, lovely readers! Last friday (coughthankmerlincough). No, but siriusly, I really hope you all enjoyed Hayles' story while it lasted. A standing O to the brilliant Molly for all she's done for the fan fiction world. Your writing and subtle inside jokes plugged into every chapter will surely be missed. I expect every single one of you readers to please review and bid Molly a nice farewell! Oh, and you know, tell us your thoughts on Skirting Around the Scot. THANK YOU ALL for reading and reviewing every week! We both love you all!_

_Loving the idea of no-stress Fridays,_  
><em>Danica<em>

* * *

><p><em>Molly's Note:<em>

_When I was in the seventh grade, I, embarrassed beyond belief, confessed to one of my friends that I was thinking about writing fan fiction. At the time, I loved reading and writing, but I had never written a full-fledged story before. Also around this time, I started hanging out with boys more and started feeling confused and angry and lovesick. I was especially interested in the Lily/James relationship because I felt like I could identify with the good student falling for the popular boy; of course, I appreciated that he was the one pining after her.__  
><em>_I had also just read Amelia Bedelia's story "Curtain Call." I highly recommend it. I probably would not have written anything without it.__  
><em>_Thankfully, my friend did not laugh at me. Well, at least not for long. Instead, she told me to go for it. And I did. As a matter of fact, I worked on story ideas that whole summer before eighth grade. I loaded a purple post-it note with James and Lily story ideas. I am proud to say that I have used all of those ideas in some way or another into the sixteen stories I have written.__  
><em>_I fashioned myself the name Molly Raesly. Molly was the name of my first American Girl doll, and I have always felt attached to it. Raesly (pronounced Raise-lee) is one of my friend's last name.__  
><em>_I was not an immediate success. I was actually rejected from Mugglenet's website four times before the first chapter of "Sweet" was published (32 chapters for the School Bus number of the boy I liked—whose birth date I gave to James). I remember feeling dejected (how could I not even make it onto a website?) and then found harrypotterfanfiction. There, I posted Sweet, which I spent over a year writing. A lot of the early writing is pretty rough, but I look back on it fondly. I wrote a lot of the scenes to mirror events going on with my own life—the hyperbolic joys and woes of a fourteen year old girl. The story has almost every cliché of a Marauder story, but I was in love with love.__  
><em>_Around this time, a reviewer seemed to want to talk to me. We exchanged emails. Danica and I soon became fast friends. We have never met, but I feel closer to her than many others in some ways.__  
><em>_Next, I attempted my first song fic. Again, I must repeat that I was all for the melodramatic. "Tell Her This" was a chance to try out the dramatic. I continued this desire in my next story, "Revenge." After writing such a funny, frivolous story, I wanted a chance to delve into darkness. A freshman in high school, I needed to capture the overwhelming pressure I felt in my own life.__  
><em>_After "Revenge," an onslaught of one-shots ensued. A lot of them were silly, little scenes. "Spin" depicted my first game of Spin-the-Bottle and gave it the happy ending that I never got. "Epiphany" was my continued drama of unrequited love and a boy who suffered from the same illness. "The Letter J" is best known for its last line. I added that to the end on a whim. I still find it funny when people compliment that.__  
><em>_My next endeavor was to write something not as romantically-charged. I wanted to be a "real writer." During my sophomore year, I decided that I was sick of Meg Cabot-type stories that wrapped up neatly all the time. I wanted to do something with a bit of action. "Hostage" made me feel extremely accomplished. For the first time, I felt as though I had written something decent.__  
><em>_And this, of course, brings us to my "claim-to-fame." "Boyfriend" was really about my older sister. We have issues. I was so angry, and, for various reasons, I could not tell anyone about it. I needed an outlet. I got an idea of James showing up one day at Lily's door unannounced, but I really only decided to write the story when I added Petunia's influence. After reading Pottermore, I cannot help but to feel a bit disappointed that the Lily/Petunia relationship is not more complex.__  
><em>_I also really wanted to write something outside of Hogwarts. By this time, I had read so many stories that all seemed to follow the same plotline. I wanted to read something different, so I decided to write something different.__  
><em>_This story transformed me as a writer. Suddenly, I had a lot of people reading. I was getting a lot of reviews. People were inflating my deflated ego in such wonderful ways. My chapters became longer. When my life felt so complicated and difficult, my Molly world became so much better.__  
><em>_Until, of course, harrypotterfanfiction suspended and then eventually deleted my account. There was a lot of drama about terms of service and the banning of the discussion of menstrual blood. It was utter nonsense. Somehow (and I must thank Danica for her support at this time), I decided to keep going. I switched sites and came here, where I found freedom. Finally, I could write what I wanted without requiring validation (quite literally).__  
><em>_And everyone here was extremely welcoming. Quite easily, "Boyfriend" began to garner the same sort of attention it had been receiving previously. I relished in each and every review. When the story finally began to end, I did not want to give it up. So I decided not to.__  
><em>_"Fiancée" was great fun. Though she was highly flawed, I loved the Lily of that series, and I enjoyed giving her a voice. I decided to hold back on the romance and focus on the two sisters.__  
><em>_"Pregnant" seemed like the thing to write at the time. I wanted to see more. I wanted closure. I knew I did not want to write the wedding (too fluffy, and at the time, I wanted the fact that Petunia secretly attends Lily and James's wedding to be my private knowledge), but I wanted finality. Writing the end of that series gave me a tremendous sense of catharsis.__  
><em>_I have sent the series to my older sister. I am not sure if she has read it yet.__  
><em>_After "Boyfriend" series finished, I took a little break. That series was taxing. Breaks do not last long, for I am highly neurotic. Also, I wanted the attention again. I missed that. At this point, I think I started to develop a bit of an ego. "Molly" was someone who mattered. I must confess that that was a bit intoxicating.__  
><em>_Precisely for this reason, I am still a bit baffled by "Stray," which is perhaps my favorite of the lot. I wrote it during the summer before my senior year, and it was filled with warm nights and sugary desserts. It contained none of the flash or gimmicks of my prior work; actually, it was extremely understated. I wanted to capture a Sirius who reveled in angst. By accident, I created Eliza Boyd and a scene in a telephone booth. I wrote my first sex scene. I felt a strange sense of serenity.__  
><em>_Then, of course, I could not write something for Sirius and neglect Remus. "Perilune" was my chance to play with the Marauders after leaving Hogwarts for so long. It was a real delight to be back. I relished in the chance to use pervy jokes again—which I justified to myself by foiling Remus's love life. One thing that has not changed is my love of talking about the pain.__  
><em>_"Amortentia" was one of the last ideas on the post-it note. I wanted to toy around with perspective and the causes of love. Even jaded and single, I thought it was all so romantic.__  
><em>_"Don't Call Me That" was the result of a last-minute freak out. Suddenly, I remembered that I was not going to have a chance to write many more fluffy Lily and James moments. I felt nostalgia for my bad writing and the fighting banter between those two. I decided to indulge myself one last time.__  
><em>_"Severus" was always intended to be my parting with James and Lily. I wanted to try canon (though I knew I could never compare with JKR). I wanted to explore Severus. I wanted to see a James and Lily that were not the focus but were still powerful. I wanted to write a Lily that could conceivably die for her son. I hope I succeeded.__  
><em>_And finally, we have arrived at "Skirting Around a Scot," which was supposed to be a combination of Danica and myself but ended up with me writing everything and Danica reluctantly dealing with my crazy deadlines and insistence that she at least edit things. I would be lying if I said I was not anticipating more feedback. I have been spoiled by "Boyfriend" and my sad delusions of grandeur. I was also bitter that many people only wanted to talk about that series and not the new stuff. One thing I would say about myself is that I am very flawed. Hayley was very different from me, the lazy writer who despises running. I wanted someone who was strong. I wanted a story that had a romantic plotline but was not solely confined to that genre. I also wanted to test my abilities as a writer and try to create a new world that was more my own as a practice for the future.__  
><em>_Poor Danica had to endure my madness. To her, I am most grateful.__  
><em>_And now here we are. Thank you to all of you who have read my stories. I really believe that fan fiction is worthwhile (though, I am still hesitant to mention it in most companies). Preemptively, I would like to discourage anyone from requesting me to write more. There will be a blog, but no more stories. I am twenty years old. I need to start writing my own stories. I have done all that I can here.__  
><em>_But also, I would like to take some time (because God knows this note is not long enough) to welcome the new wave of writers. In my infinite arrogance, I will try not to begrudge you all the chance to surpass "Molly." In fact, I really look forward to that moment.__  
><em>_Again, thank you all. It has been a supreme pleasure.__  
><em>_Enjoy your Fridays.__  
><em>_Yours,__  
><em>_Molly_

**Link to Molly's Blog: http:/www(dot)484694(dot)tumblr(dot)com**


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